


Bucky's guide to things that make sense in the 21st century apart from cat videos

by Jonaira



Series: Sketching Life (or the How's and Why's of everything Steve Rogers) [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America Civil War, Captain America the Winter Soldier, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Acquired Savant Syndrome, Action, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Artist Steve Rogers, BAMF Claire Temple, Backstory, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Breaking and Entering, Bromance to Romance, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes's Notebooks, Bucky Can Draw, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America: The First Avenger, Catharsis, Chemical Weapons, Childhood Memories, Companionable Snark, Concussions, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossing Timelines, Diary/Journal, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Drug Withdrawal, Epic Bromance, Epistolary, Fun and laughter all around until somebody loses an eye !, Gen, Hormones, Hospitals, Humor, Hydra (Marvel), Idiots in Love, Implied Cannabilism, M/M, Mad Science, Memory Loss, Military Backstory, Mindfuck, Mischief, Mission Reports, Missions, Oblivious Bucky Barnes, Oblivious Steve Rogers, POV Bucky Barnes, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-HYDRA Reveal, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Slash, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Ridiculous, Robbery, Sassfest2016, Sassy Bucky Barnes, Sassy Steve Rogers, Smoking, Snark, Stucky - Freeform, Therapy, Unreliable Narrator, Up all night to get Bucky, Very Secret Diary, Wartime, Why is this not a tag ??, Withdrawal, World War II, Writing, bucky barnes is a budding chemist, withdawal!Bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-06-07 15:39:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6811408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jonaira/pseuds/Jonaira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's Very Secret Diary.<br/>Do Not Read.<br/>(Unless Suicidal. Or Steve. To be fair, those are not mutually exclusive)</p><p>Steve wasn't sure what to expect from Bucky's on-the-run diary, but it wasn't this. Cat-Video critic, Plum connoisseur, Asimov fan and Parkour enthusiast. And there maybe a little bit about Steve penned in there. Maybe only a few hundred pages of boyhood tales.</p><p>(Tags for future chapters)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Delivery

He didn't hear the silent footsteps behind him until T'Challa cleared his throat, Steve tensing as he spun away from the cool press of the glass chamber against his forehead.  
He worries, for a split second, about how he'd never heard the man sneaking up on him, about getting lulled into a dangerous sense of security, but then again, he wasn't called Black Panther for nothing.

  
T'Challa smiles wryly, unspoken understanding of the hair-trigger instinct for fight or flight still topmost in Steve's in muscle memory, even though logic told him that he and Bucky had been safe for over two weeks now. For the first time in what feels like forever, he's without an urgent mission, he's not running full tilt towards a goal. Before the war, it was surviving and just making ends meet, during the war, well, it was war. After the ice, it was searching, hunting for familiarity, for anything that could anchor him. Then New York happened, the team, friends, SHIELD, missions. It'd helped, having short term goals set for him and achieved at the end of the day. He'd taken to instant gratification something fierce. Then SHIELD fell, and once again, that all-encompassing sense or urgency to find Bucky, to find home, became the fuel he ran on. Expanding the team, training their new members was a welcome distraction of sorts, but suddenly he's abruptly without any long term mission. He still doesn't quite know what feelings to plug that emotional vacuum with. 

  
Steve relaxed and tried to reciprocate the smile as the King spoke in his cultured cadences. He held out a small package to Steve.

  
"This arrived today morning for Mr. Barnes. I had my suspicions as to whom it might be from and if I am right then there would be nothing to fear, but regardless I've had it scanned for any threat. It is secure."  
Steve feels his eyebrows raise as he took the proffered package.  
"Arrived how exactly ?"  
Amusement made the Wakandan protector's eyes dance.  
"Let me just say it was the most unusual package our postal system has ever received. An arrow through the packing with a note saying that I owe the sender a new bow. Stuck through the door of the post office."

  
Clint. He'd disappeared after Steve had broken them out, a dimly seen salute thrown his way in the dark had been all the indication of Clint leaving for Lord knows where. The parcel is light and rectangular and the brown paper covering is completely unmarked with no indication of where it might have originated from.  
Steve runs his fingers over the paper, looking for the tape seal, but there's none. Whatever was enclosed had been folded into the sheet with paperfolds only.

  
He looked up to thank T'Challa for delivering it personally to him, but the man had already left just as silently as he'd come. Steve runs a hand through his hair. He'll do it at dinner then, the one meal they eat together in the whole day since T'Challa is busy with the administration of the kingdom and Steve is busy trying to pinpoint the other possible Hydra bases and operatives. He respects the man, likes him even, considering they'd been on the run from him barely a fortnight ago. The way he's insightful and  direct about those insights, a quiet sort of camaraderie. But still, the man keeps his secrets and his distance, and its clear that he's still grieving the loss of his father. They can grow to be firm friends, Steve thinks, but not right now, not while the situation is still in a flux and raw with the recent events.

He ambles back to the cryo chamber, and presses his nose agaisnt the chilled glass again, like he and Bucky would do as kids during the winter, drawing shapes in the mist their breath would leave on the panes. He catches himself absently marking the dots and dashes of Morse code. _I love you. Safe. I love you._  
He swipes them off the glass front and clears his throat, twitching the package at Bucky.  
"Clint sends his best. Or maybe it's his worst. He wouldn't willingly part with his best arrow, I think, although with Clint it's difficult to tell.  
This is for you. I'm gonna open it though anyway. Count it as payback for all the time you me made run notes to Dot and every other bird who caught your eye."  
He'd taken off the packaging as he spoke and a small card falls down. It's plain white and has no name of the sender.

_Thought you and Steve would like this back. Sharon says he can add it to the list of things he owes her already. We're good._  
_\- XO._

The 'X' is stylized as the double red triangles of the Black Widow though, so Steve knows that Clint and Natasha have each other's backs and are thick as thieves again, if not openly so. A part of him he'd didn't even know was tense is soothed.

"Hugs and kisses from Natasha."  
Bucky stays silent, frost glazing his long hair and turning it silver, like the old men they are. Steve feels every one of his ninety eight years then, suddenly, when he remembers how Bucky would joke desperately about sickly, bed ridden Steve outliving even Bucky, when Steve had had a case of Scarlet Fever and he'd been barely conscious enough to sass back a reply. Like always, even though he'd been half delirious then, unable to remember what he himself had said, every word of encouragement, of pleading and ranting and every prayer that Bucky had uttered when he thought Steve had been asleep is seared into Steve's mind.

His heart clenches as he holds the shabby black diary now free of it's wrapping. It couldn't have been anything else if he thought about it logically, but Steve's tired of Logic and the Facts and the Statistical probabilities of problem solving that had got them into this whole mess in the first place. Still, although he feels sick for even thinking it, despite every life lost (collateral, some would call it - he hates the word) he wouldn't change how things had gone down. They'd found Bucky because of it and well. They'd found Bucky, he had no better reason, and neither did he want one.

It's still early, the afternoon sun slanting in and warming the floor. Steve turns away from the frosted glass of Bucky's cryo chamber and slides down its length to the floor. He's been trying to root out all the trigger words and their possible associations for the Winter Soldier, but the little red folder isn't something even T'Challa can recover for him this soon after the recent events.  
He hopes that whatever Bucky's been writing in his notebook will help with fixing the Hydra situation and pinpoint Bucky's own mental landmines.  
He runs his hand over the worn cover one last time before he takes a deep breath and flips to the first page.


	2. Chapter 2

 

**Mission Report: April 12th, 2014**

**Location** : Mission Report compiled in the Leather Monkeys suite, the Fetish Fortress (BDSM Parlor), Chinatown, New York City, NY, The Unites States of America.

 **Comments** : Location secure for the most part, the Asset appeared to be welcomed for quote " _such attention to detail ! Is that gear real patent leather and Kevlar ? And oh sweetie that metal arm casing is gonna pull in all the Robo-kink  and Terminator fetish customers. You are here for the Dom opening aren't you ?_ "

  
**Transcript** :

I'd like access to a safehouse Ma'am.

_Oh, OK, you're role playing already. Hon, such professionalism is rare to come by. We're so glad to have you joining us._

The Soldier has never failed a mission.

_You got a name, Soldier boy?_

Bucky?

_Like the bear ? Could you get any cuter ?! Come right in sweetie and I'll introduce you to the other Doms._

Regardless, most clients had taken a single look at the Asset and had requested a different Dom. The Asset believes the emotion he feels is Smugness. The Asset would also like to clarify that he has absolutely no fucking idea what a Dom is supposed to be. Maybe it's a biscuit.  
A biscuit is unpleasant since the Asset regurgitated after trying something called an Oreo (It's been the same with most solid food though, so the Asset has been living off protein shakes and fruit).  
Dom's  too dress in black, like Oreo casings, and people appear to fear their Dom if the screams from the various rooms are anything to go by.  
Yet people are  not edible and Doms are people as well.  
Venn subset of logic invalidated, further research required.

 **Physical Status** : Asset Compromised. Severe internal neuro-visual damage due to head trauma from the encounter on the Helicarrier with Codename: Captain America, Steven G. Rogers (Punk ?) resulting in pixelation of the outlines of all objects viewed in steady high intensity illumination. Like everything under the sun, for example.  
The Asset is getting very tired of rainbows forming off every sharp angle and corner. Objects, especially with straight lines and curved surfaces resolve into an unquantifiable number of miniature shapes and general polygonal structures of decreasing sizes. Medical Assistance would be nice. Scotopic(Night Vision) and Photopic(colour) vision not affected, merely the shapes and outlines.

This new development disorients the Asset severely, although greatly useful for calculating lines of sight and shooting angles due to clear geometric positioning of targets according to the resolution of everyday structures into straight lines, angles and symmetric curves and polygons.

The Winter Soldier tested newly acquired abilities on a device called the Pinky's Pinball Party at the arcade on Coney Island. The Soldier would like to register in this mission report the documentation of new highest score in the history of the arcade for Pinball created by him.  
General physical reactions of the assets body point to the emotion state of Pride.

Soldier was gifted a Bucky Bear for the score. The Soldier wishes to add that he's quite sure Bucky was not furry or stuffed or a Bear either, and that Bucky didn't wear red and blue tights. Bucky in fact wouldn't be caught dead in tights. The man on the bridge wore red and blue tights and the Soldier must add, it really brought out the colour of his eyes.  
The Asset would also like record that SGR in tights would've invited copious lachrymal discharge due to laughter from the soldier. The Soldier is unsure as to how he has arrived at that conclusion.  
The Soldier would like to add that the general state of confusion the Soldier feels for mostly everything is getting old pretty darn fast.

**Mission Report addition of past Intelligence Gathering relevant to this Mission Report:**

The Soldier had carried out a reconnaissance outing to the Smithsonian Museums, Washington DC. The subject James  Barnes appears to share his face and has/had strong ties to Steven G. Rogers, but died in 1944. Yet Steven G. Rogers (Codename: Captain America) referred to the Asset as Bucky and strongly insisted that they were friends. The Asset would like to know what a Friend is. Not Ally, or Mission Assistant, or Handler. Friend. Further research required.

Analysis of reconnaissance data:

Bucky written backwards is  
YK CUB

Phonetically identical to  
YA KUB  
or  
YAKOB, similar to YAKOV

Which is a variant of  
JACOB, (Yaʻaqov)

The Anglo derivative of which is  
JAMES.

James Barnes is Bucky.

Logic is sound.

In conclusion, if James Barnes is Bucky in code or vice-versa, and if the intelligence provided by  Rogers is to be trusted ( Something tells the Asset that it can be trusted, even more so because the subject all but died to convince the Asset of the information), The Asset is Bucky, and the Asset is James Barnes and Bucky and Barnes are one and the same.  
Venn logic overlap conclusive.

I am Bucky Barnes.

 

(Bucky has still not figured out the Biscuit conundrum, though. Rats.)


	3. Bucky gets a headache.

~~Sweet Baby Jesus in a barn they actually do this for fun ?!~~ ~~Kids these days I swear to high heaven, my Mama, God Rest Her soul would've sure had a lot to say~~

~~ BDSM. I am holed up snug as a bug in a rug in a BDSM parlour, if I wanted to get hit around I'd have just stayed with HYDRA to be honest. ~~ ~~Too soon, Barnes.~~

~~I didnt even know that BDSM was a thing until two hours ago when the guy, the _Dom_ who I've been unknowingly impersonating actually showed up  and the shit storm that followed wasn't pretty~~

~~They're perfectly lovely people, the Doms I've met so far, and I'd like to get to know them better but not _Biblically, Christ._ Sweet Lord but I think I'm having a panic attack~~

** Status Report, April 15th, 2014: **

~~ The  Winter Soldier  ~~  Bucky has figured out the Biscuit-Dom conundrum and would like to register no more comments about it.  Ever.

(Goddamn Oreos. Now there's a rationable foodstuff he'll never be able to look at straight again. Funnily so, he doesn't consider that much of a loss.)

** Location and Current Occupation: **

~~ The Soldier ~~ Bucky has moved out of the Leather Monkeys suite since he is no longer a *working* member of the Fetish Fortress's staff. He has received a much better posting in lieu of looking menacing in his gear (which incidentally, is machine washable and detergent safe, who knew?) but doing nothing more than that (yet still sufficiently _taming_ the tougher clients. So that's what they're calling it these days huh ?).

He is now in charge of security (and currently the only personnel under his instruction. Staffing issues and budget cuts, he's been told. Oh well, he's always worked better alone anyway. Except there might have been a time when he had another man with him, a boy really. Not under his command but more a partner... Further research required.)  and has agreed to teach a class on self defense tailored for the women staff, especially those keeping odd hours. 

He has been given one of the upper rooms free of rent for services rendered. Something about the whole set up is triggering a mild headache in the left front cortex of his brain, as far as he can pinpoint by estimation sans Medical Electronic equipment. ~~The Soldier~~ Bucky is recollecting teaching something similar to a much younger group of females, but for offense rather than defense. Weaponizing them. There's one who stands out in particular, a redhead, quick and deadly even though she was young. She seems familiar, similar to the somebody he has fought recently, somebody connected to SGR. But he can't recall why exactly. Further research required.

** Reconnaissance: **

~~The Soldier~~ _  Bucky _ (this is going to take a while. Christ.) has been researching as much as possible about SGR and James Buchanan Barnes (JBB), a.k.a Bucky.

( ~~The Soldier  Goddammit,~~  Bucky derives from Buchanan and not from the etymological derivative that Bucky worked out (quite smartly, he'd like to add) in the Mission Report dated 12th April 2014. Correction has been registered but no update will be made to said Mission Report for information path documentation purposes.) He wishes to comment on the fact that the shortening of Buchanan to Bucky is not something that he agrees with on a phonetic basis, but hey, anything is better than Buchanan right ?

He has been trying to be subtle about his research regarding SGR and JBB,  but so far, has had all the subtlety of a Bull in a China shop especially when asking the Doms if they've heard anything about either in recent years (One of them said that SGR in nothing but his cowl and begging at her knees would be a dream come true. Er. ~~The Soldier~~ Bucky was _not_ entirely comfortable with that line of thinking.) The principle being word of mouth information always is more relevant, if not completely accurate as compared to archived data. 

Bull in a China Shop. He believes that turn of phrase was taught to him by his Mother. He doesn't remember her and that makes his trachea spasm and tighten and lachrymal ducts prick, along with a general sensation of malaise. Judging off his physiological state, this is Grief.

He knows logically that he had one, a Mother, as genetics and reproductive science was not developed enough at the time of his supposed birth to create him artificially (there was a book about this wasn't it ? Frank-something. Herbert ? Ernest?  No. Further research required. He's sure he has read it, at some point, but like most things, can't remember when. There was a monster, created. But ~~Franky's~~  Frankenstein's monster wasn't born a monster was he ? He was made one by how they treated him and he did do terrible _terrible_ things but he still wasn't _evil_ in the end was he ? Bucky and Frankenstein's monster aren't that much different are they ?   ~~The Soldier~~ Bucky would like to register that the general displacement of memory for everything he not-remebers is also getting old pretty darn fast.)

He's watched all the old propaganda footage of WW2 with SGR and JBB in it, but there's very little of them interacting and what little there is has no audio. Lip-reading points to the exchange of the terms 'Punk' and 'Jerk' ( ~~they~~   _we_ were friends, clearly, so why the exchange of lame insults ?) or what may be 'Pot' and 'Twerk'. And something about Little Invisible Boys from Brooklyn. Bucky doesn't know what to make of that exactly. Data filed away for future referencing to something that may make a little more sense (and make Bucky's head hurt a less).

The non-propaganda movies (whoever made the 1990 one has their name on the bullet of a nice clean headshot. It's possibly still more than they deserve. Jesus.H.Christ.) and graphic novels (comics ? There's nothing funny about them in the least) are pathetic and inaccurate.

~~The Asset~~ Bucky doesn't remember much , but he's dead sure that SGR would never hit a dame in the face, would never hit a dame or even raise his voice with her, period. 

He's lost most of his weapons except for two guns and a knife in the encounter on the Helicarrier, but really, a paperclip is all he needs to teach the writers of that particular comic issue a good lesson. The thought makes him smile. Smiling feels good. Plus, it makes him look rather jaunty, he might add.

Bucky will continue to search. The Archives of the Congressional Library would have been useful, but Washington D.C is the last place he could be seen right now. That trip will have to wait. The internet has proved useful so far, but he's not looking deep enough and he's sure the Hydra files uploaded recently will be very informative, provided he can decrypt them. 

Possible Side Mission: Find an ex-Hydra operative to decrypt them for him. Further research required. 

 

** Physical Status and Health Profile:  **

Surface wounds and cuts from Helicarrier encounter have mostly healed. Internal bleeding in wrenched left shoulder above mechanical joints of arm has stopped although muscle and connective tissue is still inflamed. No infection as of now.

Neuro-Vison disorder still persists but is not as disorienting as it was even 72 hours ago. ~~The Soldier~~ Bucky. _Bucky_. BUCKY. Has developed instead near photographic memory for visual data. Eidetic. It has allowed reproduction of pages from books and video without actual physical possession of materials. Highly useful for intelligence gathering. Yet, in combination with the resolution of objects under bright illumination into miniature shapes along the edges, Bucky has the strangest compulsion to draw out some of the more fantastical images he's seen. 

Something tells him that drawing and fine art were never something part of _his_ skill set. It was somebody else's. But art and its creation are not really divorced from Bucky either because that somebody was part of him as well right, once upon a time ?

Further. Fucking. Research. Required.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, the art took a while.  
> I've tried to embed it, keyword there being *tried* since this is the first time I'm doing this. So if that didn't work for you for whatever reason, here's a link to it. Please do check it out as it's an important part of Bucky's character development:
> 
> http://jonairadsylva.deviantart.com/art/If-the-Skies-had-Eyes-Art-by-Bucky-Barnes-609750338
> 
> Also guys. I'm working in plot now. Not sure how that happened already... Happy reading :)

~~Damn blue eyes won't stop haunting (only ghosts haunt, and I didn't kill him he was breathing when I pulled him out I swear he was he had to have been) me.~~  
~~I close mine and they're all I see.~~

~~A lifetime ago back in Azzano when he first came for me, yeah sure at first I thought I was dead and past  the pearly gates, because a healthy Stevie was an answer to all our years of prayers. And the very next thing I remember thinkin' was ** _Well, he finally grew into that long nose of his._**~~

~~But the eyes haven't changed, not a season or seventy later, windows to a spring sky in his thin face and I just-~~

~~Sleep won't come to me, no rest for the wicked, huh. I think I have just my first dream in seven decades or so, and all I see are the cross hairs of my rifle scope. I can't see the target beyond, it's changing continuously, sometimes just a bloody mess,  sometimes so glaring white it's like looking into the eye of the sun but most often it's just the back of  a head, sometimes blonde, raven, chestnut, ginger, flame red, smoke grey, white like spun sugar and I think I'm going insane but that's how it was wasn't it ? One clean kill shot through the back of the head and they never saw me coming because I came quiet and cold, from behind always from behind, just short of stabbing them in the back like a murderer what did they make me into what did I let them turn me into god have mercy have mercy have mercy on my soul what soul-~~

  
**Status Report, April 17th, 2014 :**

Insomnia persistent for the past 47 hours and 12 minutes. ~~The Soldi~~ Bucky has progressed to eating solids although fruits still make up the primary diet ( There's something wrong with the apples, they taste fine but they aren't what I should be eating...like a different species... can't pin it down exactly, further research required)

  
**Current Location** :

The pavement outside the Fetish Fortress (Because when a guy's gotta sit down, he's gotta sit down and quick. Plus he'd make a ridiculous sight fainting, given the way his head is spinning right now. Sure, nobody would actually see him swoon, street is deserted right now, but still its the principle of the thing. Or God forbid that caped oddball could show up to help again. God no.)

Recapping from a point where it makes sense,

Decided to be productive and continue the research into Bucky Barnes' roots in Brooklyn (despite it being 2:34 am. Early to bed and early to rise, eh Barnes?), tracking down any remaining family. Church records of births, marriages and deaths that far back aren't digitalised, so ~~the Asset~~ Bucky took trips to what could have been the chapels and churches he'd have probably attended mass at in Downtown Brooklyn. Nothing from any of the places he visited rang a bell.

But the records he got ahold of after filching them from the office of this one church (Poor security. He'd be willing to consult for improvements.) registered the death of one Mrs. Rebecca Barnes Proctor and her subsequent burial in Green-Wood Cemetery, November 26th, 1988. She had no children.

Rebecca Barnes. Rebecca.  
  
_Wee-Becca_ ?  
She used to get so mad with me when I'd tease her that cause she was tiny, even tinier than Stevie was. Pint-sized firecrackers, the both of them. She'd play with the boys, could crack a ball into the outfield more often than most of the chumps we'd play ball with but God keep the poor sucker who'd get even a spot of dirt on her only two dolls. That might have had something to do with the fact that Mama had made them for her, stuffed them with old rags and frizzing wool for their mops of hair. But their dresses, I remember the needle pricks on my fingers from stitching those little outfits myself. Might've had something to do with that as well. She'd follow Steve and me around, and when we boys were younger it was always Steve who'd convince me to let her come around with us. They'd gang up against me, the only two pairs of big blue eyes I could never say no to.  
There is a picture attached, most likely taken on her wedding day. Even in sepia, she's glowing, she's radiant. So very beautiful.

  
Wee-Becca. My baby sister, six feet under decades ago. Suddenly further research didn't seem like something I could continue on with tonight, so ~~Bucky~~ I headed back to Chinatown.

Here's where tonight got interesting instead of depressing for a change. It's easier for Bucky to get around at night without the vision disorientation intensified in broad daylight, so it's pretty much impossible to sneak up on him. Anybody trying to sneak up on him would be either Hydra or a cripplingly stupid individual, in which case both of whom would most probably deserve the complimentary facial realignment  
that result from metal knuckles to a face.

So naturally I tried to yank the guy's arm outta the socket and beat him to near-death with it when he tapped me on my metal shoulder no less, not only from behind but from upside down as well, above my head because the oddity could fly as well.

Says to me, "Hello James,"  
and when I tried to finish things before really they got started, he just floated a bit higher and tells me, real cool,

"That's not very nice."

I'm not a very nice man. I decided he didn't need to know that intel.  
But then like he'd heard what I'd thought in my head out loud, the guy answered me,  
"Ah, but you are. You just don't remember all of it yet. I could help you with that."

Now anybody who'd tracked me specifically down and knows who I am within days of me coming to that same conclusion myself was probably a foe (or by reasoning of a one-in-two chance considering my only associates are of those two types, some sort of ally. Although knowing my piecemeal history, the likelihood of him being an ally is about as likely as me missing a kill shot. Bragging ain't bragging if it's to yourself. Just saying.)

"My Mama told me not to talk to strangers when I'm out picking daisies. And buddy you're a strange one even by my standards."

That seemed to make the guy levitate even higher. And honestly, between ~~Bucky~~  myself and me, it was testimony to how pathetically I was functioning after even just two days of sleeplessness that I hadn't even pulled out my weapon already since even if the subject was a civilian, he clearly was a dangerous one. Enhanced.

"You're healing fast, I can see that. But there will come a time soon, when you'll be facing the biggest threat these worlds, this dimension and others will have ever faced, and you James Barnes will be a crucial player, the proverbial lynchpin. You will need to make choices and decisions of immense complexity and for that you'll need all your memories, your mind complete and wholesome, free from hidden traps and triggers. Believe me or not, I can help you, find these triggers in your psyche and root them out."

"Maybe you should get yourself some help first. Even the wildest runaway hot air balloons stop floating if hit with a bullet. Maybe I could offer my own services instead and help you down ?"

He sighed and turned himself right-side up, still floating out of reach though. Smart of him, because if I could've got ahold of him, he wouldn't be making me offers any more.  
Now illuminated clearly under the streetlight, the subject was a white male, early forties to fifties, fit, with a slender build. Dark hair, a widow's peak, whitening at the temples, grey eyes, a moustache and beatnik beard. Fashion disaster cape.

"Maybe my offer is premature. No matter though, I'll be waiting for you. In the interim though, know this Mr. Barnes, that you're a good man and that should you and your friends need refuge and aid in the future, my sanctum is your sanctuary as well. When the time comes, don't give up on yourself and trust only the work of your own hands, for though the burden of past that you carry is heavy, henceforth all your actions are you own, except for when affected by those triggers. Just to remind you that you'll require my assistance later."

He shot a look at my left shoulder, like he knew about the bionic arm, even though it was covered by my jacket sleeve and gloves.  
"I know what it feels like to not be able to trust the work of your own hands, and the extent to which one might go to regain control of your abilities, both physical and mental."

"Alright, if you wanted to tell me I've lost my marbles but it's all going to be dandy anyway, just say it already so we can move this show along."

The guy had smiled again and floated up further.  
"About the problem with your vision, you'd want to research Acquired Savant Syndrome."

I'd given up being surprised at how much exactly he knew about me by this point, and I probably should be worried as to how he knew what he did, but he wasn't hostile on this occasion at least, and even if his intel didn't pan out, I wouldn't be any further behind from where I started.

"Wait, don't tell me. When not out giving cryptic little messages of doom and gloom to guys minding their own business, you moonlight as a doctor as well ?"

"Neurosurgeon actually, and I'd be willing to take a look at that arm of yours if the soreness doesn't receed in another day, given your rate of healing."

"Gee, thanks Doc. Who do I ask for at your hospital of horrors huh, wherever that is?"

"The Sanctum Sanctorum, 177A Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village, New York. Don't ask for directions though, it's not exactly on Google Maps. You'll find it though, _when_ you come, because I'm sure you will, and I'm usually right about these things.  
Oh, and as you continue your quest of self and what that constitutes, stay away from the grumpy cat comparisons to your person online. I've found them to be quite, ah, accurate. Dr. Stephen Strange, at your service."

And with that last crack at me the smug chump floated away and here I am writing this down because when I wake up (if I get sleep that is. A guy can hope. Somewhat hopelessly, but hope nonetheless) I'd like to be able to cross off hallucinations about crackpots in capes as effects of recent head trauma and earlier Hydra wiping, hence the documentation that this all actually happened.

 **Research Update** :  
Based of intel provided by Codename: Dr. Strange(ass),  
Cause of vision uncertainties discovered (Hallelujah. Finally something useful). Bucky has developed A.S.S (Although Bucky would like to add that he's more than satisfied with his current backside- maybe it's too early in the morning for this level of humor handicap, some other time then Barnes)

Acquired Savant Syndrome caused due to severe head trauma (The worst effects of a concussion were avoided in his case due to accelerated healing given by the serum) is cognitive recalibration of sorts, resulting in mathematical or geometrical proficiency at an almost intuitive level due to visualization of geometrically proportional divisions.  
Apparently, the head injuries sustained aboard the Helicarrier affected parts of his brain that control object boundary formation. Hence the fractals and other pretty (terrifying) shapes.

Additionally, Bucky's serum-enhanced vision allows him to see the shortest possible distance between particles of matter with the naked eye. The edges of curves turn into spirals and although sudden bursts of light still cause disorientation due to resolution of the outlines of objects into shapes, for the most part Bucky has learnt how to handle it. He'd like to add that there really wasn't a choice in the matter of how to deal with it, given that there is only one such reported case in the world. However, the ability of sudden photographic visualization of memories is not part of the fractal segment.

Associated research conducted also included a case where a patient who survived a severe fever and subsequent epileptic episodes developed this type of memory. Unknown if the epilepsy affected the occipital lobe and visual cortex of the brain or his long term association areas or short term memories of the frontal lobe, but Bucky ain't complaining that he can close his eyes and see a gorgeous pair of legs attached to an even more gorgeous ass without needing a picture. Probably the only positive side effect of Hydra's electric mind wipes.

( ~~The Asset~~ Bucky now has an A.S.S.et of his own. Hah. It had to be written, it just had to. Not taking back that one, no matter how terrible.)

Looks like even I might take into account the possibility of a probability of the tiniest of chances of missing my shot once in the bluest of moons, since Dr.Strange's intel wasn't all bad (and fine, he could be a future ally.)

I still have no idea what mental triggers he was referring to, but I have a suspicion and if it's what I thinks it is, then I'm in deep shit and accessing the encrypted Hydra files on Codename: The Winter Soldier to find these triggers ASAP are crucial, because I'm not letting anybody inside my head again, especially not some floating bugsy in a cape whom I met just a couple of hours back, even if he did promise to try and figure them out.  
He told me to trust the work of my own hands, so that's what I'm going to do, I'm going to track down every bit of documentation about The Asset that I can find and try to flag all the landmines in my head myself.

But first, I'm tracking down the people who've found the CCTV footage of ~~Bucky~~ me on the bridge and put it alongside some cat that looks like his Nana just got punched, and then I'm teaching them some old school manners.

Grumpy Cat indeed. Darn kids these days, I swear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse me if Dr. Strange was, well, strange and out of character. I've never read his comics and know close to nothing about his characterization apart from what the wiki told me. Any pointers would be welcome.


	5. Chapter 5

  
**08:17 hrs,17 April, 2014 :**

Remembering Becca and my life before the serum has started a mental avalanche of sorts. I could always do with a lot less snow. Just putting it out there. But writing down everything I remember as it comes is helping in a big way, it's purging out all the rattles and whispers in my noggin. Plus, I've got to keep busy since sleep is currently in the middle of a nasty divorce with me. And no settlement in or out of court seems to be in sight. Although it's better than the dreams at any rate. Not looking forward to joint custody of _those_.

  
~~Bucky~~ I remembered Azzano.  
I remember being in that cage, all of us crammed with standing room only for 0019 hours until they came came to take us one by one. Standing room only, like a packed show hall, waiting to be pulled onto the stage.

I remember thanking God for the space that opened up when someone was taken, that we could at least put ass to the ground (with our swollen feet and locked joints it took a while to be able to even bend them and squat without cramping and burning at any rate).  
As if I could sicken myself any further.

We soldiers were together in the cage itself for a week, although I did time separately for Heaven knows how long before Steve came for me.  
No food, a single rusty tap that trickled like a new born babe, and no allowances to answer nature's call. To keep our morale up, and give the boys a sense of purpose, we'd demarcated areas to take a piss, take a shit, to sleep and to stand, because there still wasn't enough room for everyone to sit down at once, even with the guys being taken.

  
We'd tried to sing and then our throats got dry.  
So we tried to whistle, but blood from cracking lips don't add much to a tune so we couldn't do either after a while.

It was like they kept that tap there for show, give us a mustard speed's worth of hope and let us get crushed under the entirety of the tree of our own expectations we hadn't realised it would grow into, because not a drop was potable. Effective as hell, to let us eat ourselves from inside out, our desperation the sharpest of fangs.

Something Dugan used to say, _it ain't nothing but hope that kills the cruelest._

Course, it was dead quiet by the second day. Too thirsty to talk. A couple of the men had already started drinking their own pee by 0034 hours.  
One chap, a private I think, had cut open his arm, shallow but jagged 'cause his hands had a tremor so bad, and drank a mouthful of blood.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. I swear I saw some guys considering going over and taking a drink, and though I've seen a lot more since then (even if I can't remember all of it), no expression of the human face had ever tuned my blood to ice like that one right then.  
That one where a person realises that they're turning into something horrifying, where they still can tell right from wrong but realise that they've started not caring about that anyway. When they realize that having the choice to to do the tougher but right thing is not one they want to be confronted with at all.

When they bought us fresh water at around 0040, I've never pulled rank before but I had to, I had to and it made me sick all over again but I had to snatch the tin away from those grasping hands and cracking whispers and ration it before it was all gone in just the first lucky few gulps.  
Dugan understood then, and he helped. He knew some of the men better than I did so they listened instead of turning on me. Dernier, Falsworth and Morita had been amongst the last to take their sip, letting others go first. They wanted to let Dugan (Dum Dum ?) and me go first, but I pulled rank again and this time it felt good. Last mouthful, but worth the wait. Atleast we could speak above a whisper again.

They put us to work starting at 0037 hours since capture and parched drier than the Dust Bowl out in the plains.

Weapons Assembly. Nobody tried anything after a man was vaporized in the first hour, after he tried to make a break for it and steal a guardsman's canteen of water.  
And all the while from the moment of capture till the time it was me being dragged to that lab, they'd take one of us every thirteen hours. That's how we stated counting time after a while.

Hours measured in Goodbyes and Good Lucks, and extractions of promises from us remaining men to send the Nazi bastards to hell before we got there ourselves.

No Au Revoirs though. Still, those would be the last words Dernier would say to every guy who got taken. He didn't say a word to me though, just clapped my shoulder and squeezed it quick and rough. He spat at the guard who'd came to take me. I was more than glad they didn't vaporize him for that.

We were in the cage for a week, yeah. But I've no idea how long I was in that filthy lab room for. They hadn't even bothered to clean up the puddles of vomit and urine of the men who had been there before me.

That's something I'd be happy _not_ remembering first-hand, what exactly they did to me in there, but reading about in the Winter Soldier's encrypted files. 

Conversations during our time in the cage weren't exactly Shakespeare. Words if spoken were few and those of encouragement at that.

So I remember the longest and pretty much only chat I had with a soldier well enough. He was a private, not in my unit, but he'd helped keep up the men's spirit's like no man's business and with his slight frame and blonde hair, I think he must've reminded me of Steve a fair deal.

His old man had fought in the Great War, had been stranded in the trenches with two other men for days on end with rations gone and patience dwindling. The third got shot after two days and their rations ran out on day three.

"You know, Pa never did eat meat after he came back. Just the smell of a Sunday roast would drive him outta the house. Used to push Mother's creativity to the limits to come up with rabbit food that tasted halfway decent, and she always had ta cook up something green especially for him." Prescott said to me at around 0052 hours with no food, and only a couple of gulps of water every few hours.

He'd continued on. "We kids loved him, but we sure did resent him too, because he was so kooky about the food. He'd never sit down at the table with us if we were eating meat. Its something we grew up with, but never grew used to, you know? Thanksgiving was real peachy. He'd go a little nutty, with the smell of all that turkey wafting from the neighbourhood. Ma had tried to whip up a meatless feast this one year when I was fourteen, and I'd snapped and said who cared if Pa couldn't or wouldn't eat his chicken. I could see what it did to Ma, having to spend all those extra hours in the kitchen day in, day out, just to make something palatable for the old guy. And I'm telling you Sarge, I could see what my words were doing to him but I couldn't stop talking, it had just been building for years and years and it all just came spewing out like battery acid.  
Mother had tanned my hide good and proper and I deserved every damn lash I got and then some, but Pa hadn't said a word. He'd just put his head down on the table and cried. First time I ever saw him do that."

Prescott, young fella, younger than me, had recounted without pause.  
"He'd never tell us stories of the war even though we'd tell our friends how he was a hero 'cause he came back when the other two didn't, he came back after ten days down there in that pit."

"I get it now Sarge, I know what he did and I can't hate him 'cause what I'm sure what he did to survive would've turned anybody loopy. One of the guys down there had been his best buddy for years. I'd never noticed before, after coming back how he'd never suck the blood from a papercut. It don't seem so strange now. Not with Johnny over there drinking his own blood and no idea when the foods gonna come. If it ever does, that is.  
And Sarge, you know what ? I'd never told him I was sorry for everything I'd said to him before I shipped out. We just swept the mess under the carpet, pretended hard enough that it hadn't happened all these years. And I swear, I swear on the holy book that if I don't make it outta here alive to go back and kiss Pa's toes and tell him I'm sorry for what I said, my ghost will  haunt every damn Nazi until kingdom come."

They took Prescott the next day, and like the others, that was the last we ever saw of him.

I remember limping along next to Steve, half fallen on him on the march back to base. He'd kept telling me stories, incidents from his USO stint, not all the events in chronological order, but just the amusing stuff.  
Steve had never had a full throated belly-laugh. He'd have got an asthma attack if he'd tried to guffaw. He had this way of laughing without the ha-ha-ha, so it wouldn't aggravate his airways.  
Open-mouthed but silent and his shoulders would shake and he'd rattle whatever surface he'd be sitting on with the force of his mirth. It was either that, or that half-smile that would creep across his mouth.  
Juiced up and massive now, having run through smoke and dust without even breaking a sweat, it hadn't seemed like the asthma was anymore existent, much less a problem.  
Still, he laughed his trembly old way, shaking under my shoulder propped on his, and halfway across the world it was like I'd never left home to begin off with.

We'd been shuffling along for a quiet mile or so, him taking most of my weight now that we had the luxury of me leaning on him, when outta nowhere he'd suddenly said,  
"You know Buck, I found out the German word for sausage the other day."  
And then he side-eyed me till I was sure it had to be straining his peepers, super or not, lips pressed tight together.  
"That's nice Stevie. You could halfway order a Sunday breakfast now. Although I'd sing if you could get me a Sunday lunch and dinner instead. What day is it anyway ?"

"A wonderful day. No, c'mon Bucky, take a guess."

"Aww Steve, I've had enough of them Krauts for a long long time. "

But then he looked so crestfallen that I had to take a shot. "Alright, fine." I'd conceded.

At that, he'd grinned blindingly at me, and there had been nothing boyish or innocent about it. He'd said to me, real  casual,  
"Go on, do your Wurst."

"Do my worst. My... _Wurst_ ? That it? Wurst ?"

He was too busy shaking with laughter to answer, but it had hit me then, that I couldn't remember the last time I'd see him laughing that hard, felt his shoulders trembling under mine, beside mine, laughing at something stupid and fleeting but the funniest thing in the world because it was our joke, tremors through the lumpy mattress under us in a narrow single bed...  
And dog-tired and sick as I felt, I had to pick up the slack and turn it dirty, because that's just how we worked. Steve had stopped blushing since the time we were fourteen and could make _my_ ears hot on multiple occasions but I still tried anyway.

"Well, you could always lend a hand and help me out. You know, while _I do my wurst._ " I told him.

And face still creased with laugh lines, mouth an upturned crescent, but eyes serious as a funeral he'd looked at me and said  
"Anytime. I would. I always would."

When I think back, I might've still shook under him, but not because either of us was laughing.

When we got back to base, I raised a cheer for Captain America. The boys deserved him, a hero and icon, somebody to look up to and rally around after so long.

But not Steve Rogers. Never him.  
Steve Rogers was _my_ friend first, he was my guy and nobody else's. The cheer for him would come later, after. It would be gentle, heard by only two pairs of ears, the clink of bottles at a table for two and hoarse laughter and shoulders a'trembling.


	6. Chapter 6

**12:24 hrs, 18th April, 2014**

~~Be brave.~~

~~I want this part of them out, I want Hydra out of me, please, just please I don't want to be a prisoner in my own head anymore and my hand is shaking so bad I can barely hold the pen without snapping it~~

I'd said before that I didn't remember what happened to me in that lab. That wasn't it. I didn't _want_ to remember and that makes all the difference. My coconut's coming back under my control and that's good, it's progressive, it means I can listen to my self atleast, can follow my own commands. I can disobey their programming.  
I choose to remember Zola's lab at Azzano. My choice, _I'm_ in control. 

I figured out why it smelt like sick in there, where the stains on the floor came from. Because the first question I asked myself when I waltzed into there was what exactly made a guy _upchuck_ when Hydra had more than made sure that a man would _have_ nothing in his gut to upchuck.

But see, you register the smell alright, I'm a sniper and that's my job to keep my eyes open and ears pricked, but you don't fixate on it long, 'cause all you smell when you walk in is _steak_ and potatoes and carrots and tomatoes and I could all but heard the sizzle of the meat, fresh from the fire and it hits you like a train (hah, doesn't beat _falling_ off one though), your stomach just crumples like tissue with how hard it contracts.

There was a table laid out, silver cutlery so bright and polished shiny it hurt my eyes after the gloom of the cells, and a lace tablecloth so fine and soft, I actually felt guilty for letting my elbows up on there. Just that aroma wafting and filling me up like an Easter lunch, _Jesus_. It's like time stood still because I don't remember what happened between seeing the food and that first bite, but my guards must've opened my handcuffs and shoved me in that general direction because I was content to just stand there all night and sniff my fill, sure that this was a starvation induced hallucination of the best kind.

Oh, and then I _ate_ that first bite. It's like a kick to the balls to even think it, but that single first bite tasted more glorious than the summation of all of Ma's best dishes ever, better than the best food she'd ever cooked.  
I didn't even care if the meat was poisoned, never even considered it. Hell, cyanide would have been a lot quicker and neater than what they finally did to me. Nobody ever came outta alive this room anyway. I barely chewed, just swallowed and near choked myself but didn't stop, didn't want to and couldn't either. There were no knives or forks, just spoons with fancy handles. Nothing I could use as a weapon on them or myself. The meat was pre-cut into neat square portions, although if it weren't I'd have probably just stuck my face in and eaten like a wolf with a fresh haunch of deer.

I'd never popped the top off a bottle of champagne before, and I've never drunk the stuff since, but chilled and crisp it tasted like nectar with the meat as ambrosia. There had been a whole bottle of it, cooling in an ice bucket. My mouth's watering just thinking about it now, all the way into the next century, on a full stomach even.

There were four cigarettes on the table, honest to God all-American Marlboros and Camel smokes, two of each. Filtered, mentholated, quality ciggies. As if they'd been watching for it, an officer came in to give me a light when I'd picked up one. I'd gone through three before I'd had to run to the corner to be sick.

Starving for nearly a week will do that to a guy, especially if he eats a full steak meal on an abused and fasting stomach. And it scares the hell outta me (and there's plenty of hell trapped up here alright) the that I still think it was worth every bite.

They wheeled in fruit for me, apples and pears and oranges. Sliced and waiting and scent so tart and sweet that I fell upon it anyway even though my mouth tasted like fresh bile.This time I could keep the fruit down though, maybe by sheer force of will.

They took me after what I'd thought was my last meal at the time into the next room, kept me in isolation for what felt like a day.  
The absence of the constant press of bodies and the stench of sweat and fear was a relief the first few hours. And then it got uncomfortable, unfamiliar.   
And unfamiliar meant unsafe. It was a small room with a single mattress on the floor and no windows or anything, a single dim white light stayed on the whole while but it didn't bother me much because it meant I could sleep lying stretched out to my full length for the first time in a week, so I slept like log and did nothing more until they came for me. No food or water in that timespan, but I was an old hand at starvation now, wasn't I ? They took a vial of my blood at the end and gave me bread and water when they were done.

And then come the fun part. Well, it was fun for _them_ atleast, seeing me completely confused at their display of civility.  
The first man into the room pumped my right hand like we'd played marbles in the street, swapped Babe Ruth cards as kids. Took every measurement they could of my body with one of those little tailor's tapes. The second man in there came with Penicillin shots. I know that because he was polite enough to inform me.

It shook me up like a leaf in hurricane though, to my very core.  
I'd come in there chin up and ready to tell those men that they had a better chance of ending up pregnant from sucking horse cock than of me telling them a single thing that would betray my country, and I ended up with the finest smokes that Uncle Sam had to offer and the most juicy, tender slab of meat I'd ever tasted. Maybe if I knew what sex was like, I could've compared the two, but no such luck for me (I had always just felt like I was waiting for somebody).

But it just felt so good, to be cared for after so long and living so rough. They were _kind_ to me, what passed for tender almost. And that's what I _felt_.  
Of course, I'm not an idiot and my head was screaming and rolling on the floor beating it's fists that there's guys were _Nazis_ , they were the enemy, but the head forgets details after a while, the way you don't remember exactly what happened on a picnic when you were four, but you remember the way your heart beat faster and the feeling of warmth on your skin and your mother's fingers through your hair.

But the heart remembers what the head forgets, and although it was undeniably as false as a politicians' smile, that handshake, that politeness , the _respect_ that came before the final beating, that's the stuff which has stuck burrowed like a tick in my brain, and not the burn of the serum or the pain of the Vita Ray chamber.  
They turned my own head , my own heart agaisnt me, and I can hate them and watch them _burn_ with the spark I set upon them now, but it doesn't change the fact that they made me feel appreciated and _valued_ more than my own country had made me. They took my ego and played with it, pumped it large and proud and never pricked it.  
They battered my body with their serum and Vita Rays , but my heart was on a velvet cushion even though it didn't feel like it then.

My strongest emotion experienced while in enemy hands was relief, _pleasure_. Because of them. That's horrifying, plain and simple, because it's myself that's scaring me with my reactions. I couldn't trust myself to feel what I should and not feel what I shouldn't and I don't think I'm even making sense anymore.

Those feelings were that of carefreeness, a consequences-be-damned sort of openness to death and so started my conditioning. Because my first ever impression of my Hydra captivity was overwhelmingly positive. Pleasurable.

I've wisened up on brain washing, and how  they go about doing it. They turn you against yourself.

And doesn't it make sense anyway ? Because why would they make me a supersoldier only to antagonize me to their cause by torturing me ? All that jazz about flies and honey instead of vinegar right ? And this is what scares me right here, because I've felt the Soldier fading and me coming to the helm more and more, but if he really wants to go back to Hydra how am I supposed to stop him from dragging the two of us back ? Especially if he kicks me outta own head.  
Homeless, Heartless and Headless. Sounds about right.

I never did tell Steve specifically about the serum. I hadn't wanted to revisit my time spent in the lab when he rescued me, I _couldn't_ because they'd cracked something in me and there was no way I could tell him that I might've actually enjoyed parts of my time there, and the other men had filled him in on common time spent in the cage anyway. My revulsion at myself was enough without adding Steve's to it. But what's worse is that he'd probably have not been disgusted, he wouldn't have judged at all and would have tried to _understand_  instead and if I was only a bit broken before, that would have completely shattered me.  
He knew there was a lot I wasn't telling him but he never pushed me, even though the timing of the intel would have been crucial, not to mention dead useful. We formed the Howling Commandos and I still hadn't told him even though I could see him getting more and more worried, not due to lack of information itself but due to lack of me being forthcoming with that information.

I didn't tell him, because I myself didn't realise what had happened to me.  
I'd been able to walk back soon enough and had written that off as sheer adrenaline and Steve half carrying me.  
My bruises from the restraints were gone by the next day, but nobody realised that.  
I was hungrier all the time, but I wrote that off due to the starvation period.  
I needed alot less sleep suddenly, but I thought that was because even my body feared the nightmares. It had been such a blessed relief at the time, not needing to sleep as much.  
I kept making excuses to myself, excuses to tell myself that Hydra hadn't changed me none, not in body or mind or spirit but they had and all my lies and façades, it all came down like the pants with the suspenders snipped on the Emperor's New Clothes when Steve figured it out for himself.

Mosquitoes. That's how he did it. He'd notice things about me in seconds that would take me days to see in myself. The mosquitoes that bit him would start flying in circles, clockwise or anti-clockwise, faster and faster and then they'd suddenly just drop outta the air dead. He never mentioned it , amusing though it was and it actually only came up one night on one of the earliest missions with the Howlies.

Smack dab in the middle of the war, but every moment with the Howling Commandos made those some of the happiest days of my life. I was doing something important, something worthwhile , alongside the finest gentlemen the world had to offer me. And then, we'd have conversations like this one. We'd been slapping mosquitoes for hours on end, and I could have sworn, those things were not Anopheles or Culex or any other species of evil little beastie, but a species we'd christened  _HyDRAcula Christus_ because for every one we'd kill, two more would rise from the dead, in the third second after, and would dive bomb our sorry backsides to drink more blood. What can I say, exhaustion woke up the Darwin in each of us.

"Well, if the super juice is in your blood, what about the mosquitoes that drink your blood ? What happens to them ?" Gabe had asked Steve one evening by the fire.

"They start rocket propelled flight, humming the Battle Hymn of the Republic?" Morita had guessed with a smirk.

"C'mon Jim, be realistic. Ofcourse they don't."  
Steve had said and continued whittling away a piece of wood, and Jimmy's smile had dulled a bit.

A quiet few seconds later though,  
"They hum The Star Spangled Banner, obviously." Steve had said looking smug, had finished then, and presented Morita with the small carved mosquito that balanced midair on the single point of its proboscis. Sargent Sucker as we named it became a fireside regular after that.

And when the mozzies started doing acrobatics in midair after biting me as well, Steve put it together. It was easier to tell him the smaller details after that, and things got better but-

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made the incredibly boneheaded mistake of accidentally deleting this chapter and have lost all your wonderful comments :( Back to regular updates though! Thankyou all for (Bucky) bearing with me, you're the best <3

**13:24 hrs, 18th April, 2014**

 

 Maybe, just _maybe_ , it was a bad idea to skip dinner last night. And breakfast today morning. And lunch this afternoon.

It wasn't like I didn't do _anything_ productive at all- I completely shaved off the Amazon Rainforest that had tried to take over my face, and cut off the ridiculous mop of hair so now I look a bit more like my pre-war self on the outside atleast, even if it's a long way until I'm me on the inside. It's just that I've been remembering so much all of a sudden, after Becca reminded me of ~~Bucky's~~ my life before the fall that I just had to get it all inked down before it slipped away again.  
And what else is there to do but write ? Sleep won't come easy or difficult, and now that I think about it my stomach _has_ been feeling tender for a while, so no grub either. Actually, come to think about it, now that I'm trying to write this, the tremor in my flesh hand has been persisting for a while, but the fever is definitely new. And so is the lump on the back of my head, from knocking it hard against the desk.

Or so Jolene from the front desk tells me. Because I fainted while writing down the previous page while still at the guard post out front (apparently, I have this _look_ that scares off creeps before they can even walk in. I believe that is something kids these days call a 'resting bitch face') and am now being force fed something called Cap'n Crunch (does all food nowadays taste like cardboard? Further research required) by Jolene and there is no way I'd have refused that dame's order to "eat like you mean it, dude" even if she was making me gobble Dugan's socks after a march in the muck on a hot day, because that little lady is _fierce_.  
I ain't gonna say no to any dame who can drag two-sixty pounds of drooling muscle and metal ten meters horizontally and then prop him vertically into a chair in "eight inch Jimmy Chews (what _exactly_ does he chew now, and who the hell is Jimmy ~~and sweet Lord but why is he eight inches that cannot be fun just plain painful~~ ) and leather pants so tight they split, but not before leaving me with a wedgie the depth of a Chicago deep-dish slice."

I'm not exactly sure what a Chicago whatsit is but I'd nearly offered to help with the wedgie since I was still more than a bit fuzzy in the head and Pa always said to assist a lady if I could. But then I caught myself by the skin of my teeth and I swear to God, I'd be happy to be out cold again, courtesy of my _own_ whack upside the head this time.  
I did offer to stitch up her pants though and she just sort of looked at me like I'd offered to jump over the moon.  
She did seemed pleased though, if that sorta thing is expressed by kissing a guy to within an inch of his life instead of a _thanks buddy_ these days.  
Nearly every guy in the army ~~knows~~   _knew_  how to work a needle and thread, all to varying degrees of proficiency of course, but all could definitely mend torn seams and stitch buttons back on at the very least.  
Is that something men don't do anymore ?  
I've gotta say, that's just disappointing and plain worrying.  
But what's more worrying is that fact that I was apparently mumbling in Russian while unconscious. Jolene studied there for a while and though she couldn't catch most of what I said, I happened to be repeating the words _shock_ , _freeze_ , _hospital_ ,  _emergency_ and _you_ _donkey_ alot. As usual, like most of what happens to me, this makes perfect sense too.

I'm scared.  
If this is the Soldier coming out to play, then he's the meanest, biggest, smelliest bully on the playground, and I'm probably Steve aged eight, minus the never-say-die attitude.  
He's a gale and I'm a leaf.  
He's Germany and I'm Poland.  
He's -  
_Still very much here, Soviet and not German, you donkey, and Does Not Smell._ _The Winter Soldier understands the health benefits and dopamine producing potential of a clean shower and scrub unlike you, Yucky Barnes._

_  
__I_ did not write that.

I most certainly do not remember writing that. He's back.  
And I'm fucked.

  
_There are two possible responses to that._  
_1) No, you are not 'fucked', you are James 'Bucky' Buchanan Barnes._  
_2)_ _ _N__ _o you aren't. You're still a virgin._ _A 96 y_ _ _ear old virgin.__ __Permission to assist__ _in rectification of your condition?_  
_Additionally, In the future, please avoid basic grammatic_ _ _al errors__ _like those of capitalization of letters to remove ambiguity as to the subject being referred to or the part of speech (noun, verb, etc.) in question._  
_Complying with these simple rules of basic grammar will greatly expedite the communication between us and promote a clear and healthy working relationship_

This guy is completely nuts.

I don't understand at all, I _broke_ their programming, _we_ broke their programming, Steve and I, when Steve called to me past the Soldier's control, it was me _Bucky_   who pulled him out. I wasn't fully in control immediately after but I got stronger and steadier and yesterday after reading about Becca it's been all me at the helm. Right?

So admittedly I don't remember anything after the fall _yet_ , but I _will_ remember that too, given enough time. My brain will heal, I do have a functional version of the serum in me, and its taken care of the healing for the body of both me and the Soldier before right ? I'm still alive without too much scarring and that's gotta be the serum working.  
The thing is, I can't even tell he's up in here unless I'm writing. It's just my own thoughts in my head, it's mercifully quiet in here, but as soon as I put pen to paper, he can take over and write stuff back at me, and I don't even realise that he's done that until I see the different handwriting and the comment itself written down in response to mine. It's like a blank space in time when he does that and he could choose to respond to what I'm writing _right now_ and there's precisely nothing I could do about it it. Like having the pen-pal from hell. Or in this case, Hydra (not much difference there). With either the kookiest sense of humour, or, worse, with none at all. What could have possibly caused him to come back though ? Maybe it was the knock to the head when I fainted. I mean, I could just club myself on the head hard enough again if that would fix things-

_The Soldier strongly advises against_ _cognitive_ _recalibration as you do not have the brain cells to spare. The Soldier will try to be less abrupt when wishing to communicate in writing with J.'B'.B.Barnes and will request permission in writing to continue further with writing back instead of hijacking your body._ _A comprosmise_.

I don't trust him one bit. I'm gonna have to pull the plug on this thing, this writing ~~it's the only thing helping me and now they've taken that away from me too~~    
This might be one of my last few entries or even my last. I can't even write anymore for fear that _he_ might come out. And then decide it's nice outside this time of year and decide to _stay out_.

 

One last thing before I sign off for good though. Apparently, it's _Choos_. Jimmy Choos. Footwear. Whoever they've got naming their stuff these days needs a long, possibly permanent vacation to a dog pound. Plenty of Jimmy's to chew up their Choos there. Idiots. ~~I mean it doesn't even _sound_  like shoes, it sounds like a damn _train_ and God do I hate trains that's it I'm going nuttier than the Soldier. I just wish Steve were here~~


	8. Chapter 8

**01:56 hrs, 19th April, 2014**

  
This is the closest thing I'm going to have for a will since it's safe to say that I'm eyeballing S.N.A.F.U. in the rear-view mirror and have my ass landed well into F.U.B.A.R.

In case I don’t make it out of here, if I pass out and then croak on the premises, I need to put it on official record, if this journal is ever recovered either on my person (alive or deceased) or separately, and especially if my body is found on the premises of the Fetish Fortress, that the establishment and its employees had absolutely nothing to do the events that lead up to my death. I blame _that_ on bad choices.

Sure, if authorities find this journal, it’s pretty incriminating with all the stuff that’s in it anyway, but this is my word, for what it’s worth.

They’re one of the nicest bunch of New Yorkers that I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting (and the ladies are easily tougher and kick more ass than most of the guys ~~I’m serving~~ I _served_ with), they’ve paid me fairly for my services rendered as security personnel on a weekly basis (I haven’t a clue how the Soldier wrangled that one when he was in control) and hell, I’m going to miss this bunch even if its been just a short while knowing them.

As such, I don’t wish to saddle them with the shitstorm that would result with having a dead body on their property, even one as pretty as mine (dealing with lawyers is not something I’d even wish on my worst enemy. Actually, scratch that, I’d wish an entire freaking law firm upon HYDRA)

~~_Permission to debrief ?_~~

Hence, I’m packing up and getting the hell outta dodge. Just finished wiping down the all surfaces for prints. I’m not going into the system as a fugitive if I can, even dead. My Mama would appear and damn near twist my ear off for becoming a felon.

~~_You already are a felon._~~

~~Nope, just an asshole. You, on the other hand, are a real piece of work.~~

Now, I’m gonna crawl out of Chinatown fast as my little kneecaps will carry me (no trains) and haul ass to the Brooklyn Bridge to spend my final moments giving in to my inner sap and watching the sunrise one last time before kicking the bucket on public property. You're welcome for the headache, State Department.

To say I'm a little worse for wear would be akin to saying that the Allies were kinda cheesed off with Hitler. Because unlike Steve, I know when I'm beat.

_~~That’s because you have a lot of practice, Unlucky Barnes~~_

~~Shut.Up.~~

_~~Apologies, the Soldier was supposed to ask permission to tell you that.~~_

And this is the end of the road for me. A hospital would be one of the places authorities would have on alert for me, well, technically the Soldier, just my blood work-up would out me and hell, I don't even know if whatever it is that's wrong with me is even treatable by them.

Because this isn't just insomnia or its side effects, this is sickness alright, worse than something that even Steve could pick up and the kicker is that _I don't get sick_ , and especially not after Azzano.

The boys would be cussing us out with their dripping noses in knee-high snow, because the grown men that Stevie and I were, we'd be chucking snowballs at each other's heads. There was a lot that the serum did to Steve that unnerved me, but it also made him well enough to play in the cold with me and though I'd never admit it to him, that's one dream I was never able to give up on ever since we weren’t much taller than munchkins, and the serum made it a reality.

_~~Permission to debrief ?~~_

~~Oh, I'll de-brief you and trust me it won't be pretty~~

_~~That's a physical impossibility given our circumstance. Please maintain the solemnity of a mission report debrief. Permission to debrief ?~~_

~~Get bent, Frosty.~~

Winter was always a bit harsh, yeah, but there was just something about it that got me. Maybe because it mirrored real life - tough at times, heck, most of the time if I'm being honest, but also beautiful if you stopped to look. The most amazing things in life were small and fleeting, easily ignored in favour of fretting over the bigger stuff, like icicles in the midst of a blizzard.

Sure, one would be a fool to go dancing in a snowstorm tryn'a catch pretty icicles, but it doesn't mean they weren't _there_.

Maybe winter represented opportunity- I used to earn nicely enough as a kid from shovelling the snow off the sidewalks, enough to actually get Becca, Ma, Pa, Mrs. Rogers and Steve something for Christmas.

Maybe I'm going off point, but if there ever was a time for reflection on life, this is it.

~~_Permission to debrief?_~~

I’d seriously considered trying to track down Medico Weirdo in the Village, search for his promised asylum on Bleecker Street. But even if I did trust him, his area of expertise seemed to be more of the mind rather than of the body. I don’t need a doctor to tell me that while my mind might be a whole bag of cats, it’s my _body_ failing that’s going to kill me.

If he tries to poke around in my head, he might just makes things worse. One homicidal villain running around inside my skull is quite enough.

~~_You flatter the Soldier._~~

Primum non nocere, right ? First, do no harm.  
Plus all that stuff about triggers is not something that I understand and even if he was right about the Savant Syndrome, there’s no guarantee that he’s correct about my brain bombs and other mental landmines.

Speaking of which, the vision issue is resolved. I can see fine again without those fractals and crazy shapes. Although the perfect recall for visual data still persists. Again, I’m not complaining but I do want to know why. I mean, I can’t tell if it’s the serum, because sure, after Azzano, I did learn and remember quicker, but nothing like this photographic recall.

_~~PERMISSION TO DEBRIEF ??~~_

Steve and I, we liked our gallows humour, and it became something of a tradition the night before the missions with the commandos for us to write an epitaph for the other. Now that I come to think of it, sure it was morbid, but at the time, we’d compete to see who’s was the funniest. It beat me how he did it, but Steve somehow always managed to make his lines for me _hopeful_ , even though I stood a good chance of not making it back the next night to bitch at him about getting mosquito bites in places where nobody but my sweetheart had any business nibbling. Irishmen, I swear.

One of my favourites had been this one,

‘Here slumbers James Bucky Barnes,  
Who lived to a hundred doling out his charms.  
The good die young’

Why waste a perfectly good verse, right ? Getting to use it now. Turned out to be something of a prophecy as well. Didn’t get to see all that much of the 21st century, but that’s alright. I’m going to get to sleep soon and

_PERMISSION TO DEBRIEF ??_

Don’t you get it dumbass, I’m just going to keep ignoring you! Stop contacting me, alright, I'll catch whatever you have.

_And what’s that? A sense of humour ? Or maybe a sense of self-preservation ? Permission to debrief?_

NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT. PERMISSION DENIED.

_The Soldier recognizes that you have come to a decision, but since it is a stupid-ass decision, he has elected to ignore it. The Soldier has been attempting to earn your trust, but that has proved to be an exercise in futility._

Earn my trust !? How ? By taking away my autonomy over my own body ? By being vague and unhelpful ? By calling me by the lamest possible names ? I mean, kid, if you’re trying to get a guy mad, go the whole hog at least. You got the sympathy of a cactus and all the social skills of a porcupine if you think your insulting of me- which, I re-iterate, needs serious work- is the way to get on my good side.

_But trading insults as a form of affection has a precedent evidenced by the interaction between Steven Grant Rogers and you. The Soldier is of course referring to your  usage of the terms ‘jerk’ and ‘punk’ to convey your respective sentiments. Of affection. Amongst other sentiments._

Stay the hell out of my memories. And Steve was already my friend. You aren’t. Heck, I don’t even know what you are.

_I’m batman_.

What ?

_Nevermind. Since apparently, the name-calling is not standard protocol to display affection with you, the Soldier will update tactics and attempt to rectify his ‘vague and unhelpful’ comments. As a sign of good faith, he will explain to you Bucky Barnes, all the possible queries you may have and detail the reasons for your current physical status._  
_Firstly, you are about to die._

Oh gee thanks, way to reassure a guy. That’s old intel, tell me something I haven’t already figured out.

_But you don’t have to die. The Soldier knows exactly what is wrong with you (other than you abysmal appreciation of the Soldier’s attempts at humour) and can aid in its rectification._

I’m all ears.

_Please refrain from interrupting._

Now why would I do that.

_Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit._

Too bad you can’t use either.

_The Soldier will act his age, Elderly Barnes, and maturely continue with this debrief._

_Regarding the recession of the Acquired Savant Syndrome related vision issues, the Soldier theorizes that it was caused entirely due to the concussion, but since our brain’s visual cortex has completely healed since then, those symptoms have vanished._

_The eidetic memory is possibly due to permanent rearrangement of neural pathways in the long-term and short-term memory and association areas of the frontal lobe due to some combination of HYDRA'S recent wiping and the subsequent head trauma. Eitherway, it would be good policy to not look a gift horse in the mouth._

_Due to persistent insomnia, you have been without sleep for 94 hours and 50 minutes. Fainting fits do not count._

_Additionally, we walked everywhere we went whilst tracking down basic information on your past; Coney Island, Greenwood Cemetery, the various churches amongst others, because you refused to ride a train. Understandable, but inconvenient._

_Even so, it was largely the Soldier in control then, whose tolerance for physical stress is higher due to appropriate mental conditioning and training. Even allowing for the serum, that level of exertion and mental stress with the switch of command from the Soldier to you is too much to bear. Hence the blurred vision, extreme weakness and constant tremor in our biological arm._

_You have unwisely refused sustenance over the last 24 hours, except for a meagre bowl of high glucose cereal which is the only reason you have not blacked out yet. You're lucky the one who spoke Russian insisted on it. The increased metabolic needs of our body due to the demands of the serum and the additional recovery from injuries sustained on the helicarrier requires a higher frequency consumption of food, which you have done the opposite of._

_Glycogen reserves are negligible, and soon muscle degeneration due to its protien being utilized as our metabolic substrate will occur._

_In addition to that, we are undergoing what is termed as Cryo-Shock. This was something the soldier tried to warn you about earlier, when you sustained minor head trauma._

_If you had not avoided writing for this long, the Soldier could have briefed you about this earlier, you donkey- that was not meant fondly at all- and we could have come up with a solution that much quicker._

_Due to the fact that we went rogue and didn’t submit to HYDRA after the encounter aboard the helicarrier, we missed the requisite post-mission prep. required to stabilise our body after coming out of cryo and abruptly having to adjust to standard temperatures and additional mission exertion._

_Standard protocol dictates that the Soldier be injected with adrenaline, so as to have a high blood saturation, just moments before freezing. This was required to jump-start the Soldier’s systems and ensure optimal functionality and physical performance immediately after the next de-frost however many years later, so that the Soldier could be sent on a mission with negligible recovery time._

_The Soldier was required to give an estimate of the maximum number of hours he would require to complete a mission, and would accordingly be dispensed with no more than the dosage of glucocorticoids (to stimulate natural adrenaline production) and pure adrenaline required for that particular timeframe. Long term, the increased blood concentration of catecholamines would start to mimic the symptoms of a pheochromocytoma, which includes increased anxiety. One of the reasons why keeping us out of cryo for extended period time would start to undo our conditioning._

_It ensured that the Soldier absolutely had to return to HYDRA after a mission and could not escape, because he’d lack the adrenaline injections to keep him alive outside that of the timeframe of a mission. It also served to ensure that the Soldier was as good as he said he was and consistently delivered, because the penalty was death._

_So precisely was the dosage measured, that the Soldier wouldn’t even have time to infiltrate a hospital to steal the required catecholamines. We have none of those injections, and it has only been the semi-regular intake of food here at the Fortress that has kept us going._

_The serum has only delayed Cryo-Shock, but we desperately need the hormonal injections. The longest the soldier has ever gone completely without them before had been six days in Budapest, in 2002, because he went rogue to help an ally._

_HYDRA recovered the Asset though, which is why he survived. It has already been ten days, since the 9th of April, without our drug supply. We need to find an immediate source of adrenaline as a holding measure until we can acquire more either from a hospital, or from a HYDRA base directly._

Now that changes things. 

_And as to how the Soldier got the security post, he'll keep that to himself._


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late, I know. I'm standing in my corner here, punished with my nose to the wall. Sorry.  
> This is pretty short, but you'll see why. The following chapter will be up quick in a couple of days !

**02:22 hrs, 19 th April, 2014.**

_Barnes ? Do you copy ? Are you sufficiently revived ?_

So I guess I’ve got you to thank for the ciggy I’ve got stuck in my kisser ? First you go lighting up my smokes for me, next thing I know, you’ll be giving me flowers. I’d have to put my foot down at you popping the question though.

_The Soldier wishes to point out that the two of us share a brain and a body (unfortunately) and thus cannot possibly try to romantically engage with you, i.e. to say, with himself. That would be extremely inappropriate._

Right. Remind me to work on your sense of humour when we aren’t in imminent danger of dying. Nice to know that some things never change. Speaking of which, why am I not feeling as dead as I should be ? I haven’t felt this awake in _forever._

_You mean in the last few days.  
_

Meh, it's all relative.

_After your last entry 26 minutes ago, our bodies’ adrenaline levels were at a critical low. Hence the Soldier pushed your consciousness into temporary dormancy, acquired control over our shared body, and bought 4 packets of Lucky Strikes from the corner shop. The Soldier was two cigarettes away from finishing the first pack when he felt you struggling to assume command of the senses, and hence relinquished control._

Luckies, huh ? So there’s still hope for you. The fact that an unstable, potentially volatile assassin was walking around buying a pack of smokes bugs me a lot less than it should. Which in turn, bugs me all the more.

_Might the Soldier suggest bug repellent?_

I take my previous statement back. There is no hope for you. Why did you choose to let me back in command though? Sure, I’m relived you did, but it makes me all the more suspicious of you when you don’t act the way I’d expect you to.

 _The Soldier understands your mistrust of him, but also wishes to point out that who_ you _are, Bucky Barnes, is intimately linked with who the Soldier is. We neither share the same personality, nor the same motivations for doing what we do, but our cooperation is imperative to achieve mission completion, which in this case, is to stay alive. As such, keeping you cooperative and compliant with this mission objective is one of the Soldier’s primary concerns at this point._

_You almost completely gave up your will to survive, which is unacceptable, and all the more so while the Soldier mutualistically shares a body with you._

_And if you try to use this information as leverage against the Soldier in the future, he will_ not _hesitate to ensure that you enjoy a long and painful migraine, but just maybe, the Soldier might not completely wish to shoot you, were we two separate individuals with two separate bodies._

_Now, the reason the cigarettes are working is because the nicotine causes the release of the adrenaline from the medulla of the adrenal glands, which has raised our blood-pressure, respiration and heart rate-_

Aw, Sugar, I think you’re sweet too. ~~I’m in~~ I was part of the Strategic _Scientific_ Reserve’s operations, remember? I know how nicotine works, how smokes can keep us awake, but even puffing away all four packs won’t keep us going for more than a single day will it ? The serum will just make us burn through all the nicotine and adrenaline in our bloodstream even quicker than just your regular, average half-dead guy. We need pure adrenaline, or epinephrine, whatever we can get our hands on, _wherever_ we can get out hands on ‘em _._

_Yes, regarding that, the Soldier has a Plan. There is no guarantee that the plan is executable without any civilian interference, or if it will appeal to you, and even if it does-_

Your point, Frosty. Come to it.

_We need to infiltrate Metro General Hospital and get ourselves into the I.C.U._

 

_Hello? Barnes? Are you reading? Please confirm that you are reciev-  
_

 

Right. Hospitals. Wonderful.

I take it that wishing ourselves _Break a Leg!_ would be an inappropriate sentiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smoking four packs of cigarettes a day will kill you pretty quick. Lets just leave that to the professional Supersoldiers, yeah ?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the last chapter was criminally short, and my updates have been irregular, here my friends, have yourselves 4600+ words of madness !!
> 
> I owe my mum a big Thankyou for all her inputs on the medical stuff in this chapter. She patiently answered all my questions which were definitely more than those on even her final exam.
> 
> Some ideas like using Jeff Mace and lines have been taken from the comics, though not always said by the same characters. Props if you can spot them :)
> 
> All in all though, I think this one turned out decently enough. I'm always interested in your takes on the the latest installment though, so R'n'R guys :) I'm glad to say that this fic is now officially 1/5th complete, which isn't all that much of a milestone, but hey.
> 
>  
> 
> I'm now going to go cry about my Calamus 'verse. And possibily work on it. Visit me in my corner on tumblr sometime !

**Mission Report: 04:13 hrs, 19 th April, 2014.**

**Location:**  The commode, second stall from the right, Men’s Restrooms, St. Anthony’s wing, 3rd floor, Metro General Hospital, New York.

 **Status Report:** Compromised.

 **Comments:**  The Winter Soldier has assumed executive command of this mission, Barnes having experienced something of a nervous breakdown upon entry and registering of the typical scent of antiseptic characteristic to hospitals. He has withdrawn into his private corner of our shared consciousness as a defence mechanism.

The scent of acetone as an antiseptic swab pre-injection was a large part of his highly painful sensory experience while Zola’s test subject at Azzano, and has brought back every disturbing memory he associated with the place and had been attempting to keep locked down even from the Soldier. The same scent doesn’t affect the Soldier in the least since injections were an integral part of standard procedure during post and pre mission prep.

Since Barnes refused to share this potential trigger of his at the time of the Soldier proposing to break into a  _hospital_ of all places, under the misguided assumption that he’d be able to fight the crippling effect of those memories, he is out of commission until he recovers. The Soldier hopes that Barnes finds the back of his mental eyelids interesting, because by the Soldier’s estimation, he’ll be looking at them for a while.

When you come back and read this Barnes, the Soldier wishes to inform you, that you, sir, are a nincompoop. As usual, it will be up to the Soldier to save the day.

 **Field Report – will be updated in real-time due to unforeseen changes in mission parameters** (or as Barnes might put it, we’re flies in a soup. If it's up to the Soldier, he'd pick Borsch.) **:**

_Phase One: Infiltrating the I.C.U and Securing the epinephrine injections._

That...will not be happening. At least not recovering it from the I.C.U, for sure.

For one, the Soldier was unable to get anywhere  _near_  the I.C.U due to the presence of heavy private security stationed right outside.

Who also happened to be HYDRA agents. Oh joy.

They really need to be more subtle about flashing that ridiculous octopus around. They’ve got it inscribed on all their communication devices. While merely just a meaningless (if ugly) insignia to the layperson, any half-way competent intelligence operative would recognize it immediately. Knowing their modus operandi, by allowing easy recognition of their organization they hope to deter potential hostiles through fear of their reputation before the hostile can take any action. 

What those imbeciles fail to grasp though, is that the people who would attack them anyway inspite of knowing who they are, also happen to be those most likely to be able to take them down as well. Like the Soldier, for example.

Flashing what they think is their lucky charm only paints a target on their backs. Had they been in plainclothes instead, while definitely suspicions, they wouldn’t have let the Soldier zero in on them as the problem to be eliminated, and in general end up helping his case more than their own. How considerate.

The Soldier has made twelve agents in total on the outside, easy enough to take down in a narrow hallway, but his hands are tied for the following reasons:

1) He’s in a public space and drawing attention to himself would be the stupidest thing he could do. Even stupider than HYDRA, and that's saying something. Plus, it’s a hospital and he doesn’t want to risk injuring staff or patients as collateral damage.

2) The element of surprise is his biggest advantage. Only a handful of technicians and Hydra uppermost level know what the Winter Soldier actually looks like and outright attacking the grunts will out him as a hostile to be watched, even if the lower levels don’t recognize him for who he is.

3) Officially, since the Soldier hasn’t reported to his handlers, it means that he’s still on assignment to eliminate Captain America. They don’t know his programming had cracks that  became fault lines, that he’s slipped through them and broken away. Revealing himself as the Soldier while attacking HYDRA will show that he’s broken programming, and will make HYDRA come after him. Because already having half the world’s authorities hunting him is just his idea of relaxing.

If only there had been time to scope out the place before launching possibly the most desperate drug-run in the history of drug-runs, the Soldier would not be crouching upon the lid of a men’s toilet commode, writing this, instead of introducing his boot to their backsides. Somebody in the next stall needs to lay off the beans.

From what he has deduced, the Soldier is strongly convinced that they're guarding injured members inside. The Soldier suspects that all HYDRA members across American SHIELD bases had revealed themselves at the same time, meaning there was probably a fire-fight at the New York base near Times Square and what he's seeing are the injuries that resulted. 

Which means that there's a base right in our backyard, and that SHIELD lost it to HYDRA because where else can these security forces be reporting to and from, if not a home base now under their control?

Most importantly, this means that they're understaffed, what with recently casualties and the already weakened force being further divided between security runs to the hospital and manning the base in case of guerrilla takeover attempts by SHIELD.

That's the best news the Soldier's had all day.

Unfortunately though, this implies that the Soldier will have to do a lot more talking than he’d planned on, and to _civilians_ at that.

While the Soldier’s area of expertise lies in eliminating targets and potential hostiles in relative silence, smooth-talking had always been Barnes’ forte, from what the Soldier can make out from his memories. But he’s done it before and he’ll do it again.

There is an upside to this mess, however. Barnes’ hasn’t been out in the modern world with _him_ being the primary one in control rather than the Soldier. Going by his stellar reaction to the smell of antiseptic, there’s no determining how the sight of the modern world would affect him. Hospitals and their staff have changed considerably since the last time he saw them, and being better at everyday civilian interaction or not, he would have been exceedingly distracted by everything shiny and new.

Not to mention, trying to heartily congratulate every female doctor he encountered on ‘ _showing them whose boss, ma’am, I bet you make a better doc than most of the guys!_ ’ would fail to constitute ‘normal civilian interaction’. Although noble enough, Barnes’ staunch support of women’s equality in employment would prove to be a tad misplaced in this scenario.

The other place we can acquire the epinephrine from is the Operation Theatre. However, this will imply having to get in either as the surgical team, or the team that preps the O.T. His best bet is the ODP team, which means that he’ll have to steal a male nurse’s scrubs. Enroute to their locker rooms right now.

On a side note, while he may not have been able to employ the HYDRA agents as his personal punching bags, the Soldier couldn’t just leave them completely unscathed. He has _principles._

He managed to ‘accidentally’ bump into one goon and steal his communication device. While undoubtedly useful for him to track down the exact location of their base of operations by accessing the standard imbedded tracker, that function will be useful later on. What is of more immediate use is the fact that these are also transcription devices. The Soldier can verbally record, play-back and print out every statement picked up by the mic. once he disables the communication features.

This is the second-best piece of news the Soldier has had all day. Actually, today’s starting to look pretty good. He’ll be using this field op. as a dry run for future missions involving the transcriptor.

Because if he has to write up all the subsequent mission details and statements by hand, metal or not, it _will_ fall off. The Soldier will add relevant commentary post-mission to clearly document the context in which the printed statements have been made. (How the fuck do these gorillas talk with the damn octopus staring at them from their devices ?)

_[Transcript begins]:_

Approaching staff locker rooms. The women’s room occupied by a single person, the Soldier can’t let her see him go into the men’s room.

_[Recording]:_

_Yea- Yes I understand Mike, but honestly I thought this about was something important ! - Yeah babe it's massive and all but right now, Mike, right now, I've just finished my rounds of the Venereal Diseases ward and let me tell you, a dick pic is the last thing I find a turn on. Gonorrhoea, Mike. Pus. Urethral oozing is not something one can unsee- crap someone's coming, I'll call you later-_

~~Shit. No wait- no no, that wasn’t supposed get recor-~~

_Excuse me sir, you’re not supposed to be here, this is a staff restricted area only. Could I help you get to wherever you’re headed ?_

Ah, to the men’s locker room, actually. I’m new here and came to change into my scrubs. Actually, I’m kinda screwed. I’m part of the prep. team for one of the O.T. rooms up on floor three, but I’ve forgotten the name of the doc whose prep. team I’m assigned to and for the life of me, I can’t remember the O.T. room number either. And I am so very sleep deprived right now, I could cry.

_Oh buddy, aren’t we all. I’ve been on the graveyard shift for the past couple of weeks. Seriously though, I’ve got patients who look better off than you do. Now I can’t help you with the sleep thing, but I can help you with this. Just speak to Mary down at the nurses’ station to check who you’ve got. Although actually, you said third floor right ? If I remember correctly the only O.T. room up there was booked for seven a.m. today by Doctor Kirby. You’d better hurry, it’s already quarter to five. The rest of the ODP’s must already be up there. Actually, if you get changed quickly, I‘m headed that way and could take you along._

Give me just two minutes, ma’am.

[ Has entered the room, had to break a few of  the locks to find a set that fit. Will have to retrieve own clothes from the vent. This might actually just go off without a hitch]

Thank you so very much, ma’am. I owe you.

_Hey, don’t mention it. I’m Claire Temple, by the way. I still remember being new here. You can’t tell your ass from your elbow fully awake and then throw in the sleep deprivation and you’ve got yourself a party._

I-I fail to see how that’s a party.

[Snorts] _Cute. So where’re you from, mister...?_

James. I transferred from St. Mark’s hospital. [That happened to be the nearest hospital that the Soldier knew of. It had made sense at the time.]

_That...is not what I meant. Well, anyway here we are . Good luck, James. I’ll see you around._

[Maybe interacting with civilians isn’t so bad after all. O.T. 3 had been empty, although the official prep. team could have been arriving any moment. The Soldier located the epinephrine injections, picked up all eight of them. Additionally, the Soldier collected 10 coils of catgut suture, 3 q-tip needles and 3 scalpels. Because one can never have a big enough stash of pointy objects. Four packets of saline drip solution. 2 packs each of surgical vinyl gloves and latex  gloves. He’d packed all of this into a spare surgical gown he’d found in the adjoining scrubbing room. He’d been alone for ten minutes, tops, and thinking that all this is really going swimmingly, which of course meant he’d jinxed it. The HYDRA grunt from whom he’d stolen the communicator had found out, and had somehow recognized him as guy who’d knocked into him earlier. He’d recognized the standard pick-pocketing move and had put the thievery together with that of the Soldier’s action. Gorillas can be trained beyond that of the circus apparently. One learns something new every day !]

[Transmission fuzzy, probably the sound of the doors slamming open overloading the sensitive receiver on the transcriptor. The Soldier will henceforth be referring to the HYDRA gorilla as Kong. Like the 1933 film. Of course, Barnes had adored it and now Grandpa's fondness is leaking into the Soldier’s headspace as well. Help.]

It pains the Soldier to admit it, but the ensuing fight had been skewed in Kong’s favour for a multitude of reasons- days of poor eating, extreme exhaustion not counting the added effort to walk to Metro General from the Fortress, Cryo-Shock and the resulting tremors. It didn’t help that the Soldier’s body chose to experience a wave of dizziness right then. Even the adrenaline generated by the fight wasn’t sufficient. It was probably a good thing that the situation hadn’t allowed for the Soldier to engage the twelve HYDRA ~~gorillas~~ guards outside the I.C.U. earlier. He’d have been overpowered by wildlife.

The nature of the operating room with the anaesthesia cart and bed right in the center made an interesting set-up for a chase. Barnes knows a song, something about a popping weasel, that would have been appropriate for what the first minute or so of the fight looked like. The fact the Soldier was the weasel in this scenario only wreaks havoc with his self-esteem.

Hand-to-hand combat wasn’t much better- there’s no point to having a metal arm if one can’t muster the adequate power required to deliver a blow with it. For the first time since his early training days with the Russians, the Soldier found it difficult to even lift his arm. The Soldier could only dodge and block, because Kong was fast, strong and hadn’t been starving for the last four days.  He’d overpowered the Soldier, and had been busy choking out what little life he’d had left in him, when a sound like a gong went off and Kong crumpled unconscious to the floor.

Claire Temple stood behind him, her fire extinguisher upraised.

_Dios mio, I just killed a guy._

[The Soldier had checked his breathing.]

Nope. Please don't scream.

[The Soldier stabbed him in the neck with a scalpel from the storage drawers. She didn’t scream, and to her credit, didn’t faint either. She did however, drop the extinguisher and back away. Lucky for us, O.T. 3 was strangely positioned far off in a lone corridor split from the main and busier hallways, and this was conveniently deserted at this time of the morning.]

Now he is. Or he will be.

_You just killed a guy. Shit. You just killed a guy ! I’m calling security._

[The Soldier had started stripping Kong of his HYDRA uniform. It would be very useful for infiltration into future bases, and the Soldier would have been stupid not to take it]

_And apparently you strip guys you’ve just murdered of their clothes. Any moment now, I‘m going to wake up and this is all going to go away. I’m going to wake up and then schedule myself for psych. counselling and use up my entire backlog of vacation days because even dreaming about this kind of stuff is not healthy._

You do that ma’am. But first, you need to get out of here right now. Call security and report a disturbance up here. Say you heard crashing, but didn’t investigate because you were scared. Then get as far away from here as possible. Forget all of this ever happened.

[The Soldier wiped down the extinguisher for her prints, and the pulled the scalpel out of Kong’s neck. The crime scene just got messy after that with nothing plugging the wound]

_Woah woah woah. Hold on a moment. I just saved your life, and you owe me an explanation ! Who are you ?! Because after watching you fight, there is no way I’m buying that crap about you being just James over from St. Marks! ._

I’m not _just_ James. There’s plenty of the Soldier and a fair bit of Bucky too. Although he's taking a nap right now.

 _Who the hell is Bucky? And who is_ [she swallowed] _who_ was _that guy?_

HYDRA.

_Should I be asking if that is a who, or a what?_

Ideally, ma’am, you shouldn’t be asking anything. Do you not watch the news ? HYDRA is a terrorist organisation that dates back all the way to World War II. It’s been the subject of nearly non-stop coverage for last couple of weeks on every American news outlet there is.

_I told you, I’ve been pulling the night shift in addition to my regular the last couple of weeks! I haven’t even had time to even sneeze, forget watch the damn news!_

Well, take it from me, you don’t want to be here when his friends come looking for him. If the rest of his unit finds out that you were involved in the elimination of one of their members, they won’t come back for his body if it’s locked down in police custody. They will come back for yours, however. 

[She didn’t look pleased about that, but at least it got her moving away. And still she kept at me, even though the Soldier had a bloody scalpel which she had just seen him wield very efficiently. The Soldier wouldn’t have wanted to cross her had she been a trained agent]

_And why should I listen to you instead of turning you in? I’ve no proof of whatever you’ve just told me, but you did just kill some guy in front of me and shit, I’m an accomplice to murder aren’t I ?_

Not if they can never place you or me at the crime scene.

[The Soldier had stepped outside with his sleeve covering his face and shot the CCTV camera mounted nearby. He then crushed the body and the storage card inside it. He had avoided a facial shot by the camera earlier while on his way into the O.T., but footage of three people going in and just the two of us coming out would have definitely been a give-away. He took Kong’s gun as well along with the extra clip in Kong’s belt. The piece had conveniently possessed a silencer. All the quieter to kill you with, my dear. Now _that_ should have been the HYDRA motto instead of the old one about heads]

Now ma’am, you’re the nicest person I’ve met all day and I really don’t want to have to kill you as well. I won’t ask you to leave again.

 _I promise I’ll keep my mouth shut, just please tell me something,_ anything _, so that I know I’m not crazy. I swear, I wasn’t following you. I’d just come back to tell you that Kirby’s team had been in O.T.5 and not 3 and never again will I try to be a good Samaritan, lesson learnt._

I’m sorry ma’am, but you’ve already seen more than you should have. Plausible deniability is what you need, not answers. Just forget all of this ever happened, alright ? Just one last thing though. It’s none of my business, but in my humble opinion, a lady like you can do way better than that Mike guy.

[She’d stayed silent for a while, probably coming to terms with what she’d just been a part of. Either that, or seriously debating the merits of slapping the Soldier. He can’t say that he wouldn’t have deserved it]

_You’re an interesting guy, James. I sincerely hope we never meet again._

[She was gone then, and the Soldier took Kong’s phone as well. He added the uniform, gun, clip, and mobile to his bundle of supplies and got back to the locker rooms. There were two men already in, so he waited in the janitor’s closet nearby. The Soldier retrieved his clothes from the vent. He’d have liked to have stolen some prescription strength painkillers from the pharmacy downstairs and chemicals to make explosives from the pathology lab for _Phase Two_ of the mission, but the hospital was getting busy again and he’d be able to recover these elsewhere later on. He’d injected himself with 5 ml of epinephrine though, and the tremors had immediately lessened. He’d repeat the dosage after three hours. This proved to adequate to get him back to the Fortress.]

**07:23 hrs, 19 th April, 2014**

Looks like you did just fine there without me, Frosty.

_Barnes. The Soldier notes you are fit to return to active headspace duty._

What, no good morning kiss for me sugar ? So that’s how it is, yeah ? I shoulda known, put out once and the romance is dead.

_As might you be, should you keep going._

Aw, I’d missed the death threats. Just like old times, eh ?

_Now, if you have finished perusal of the mission log, the Soldier will outline what he has got planned for our raid on the HYDRA base. We will need to-_

 Sleep. It’s a Saturday, the Fortress is closed for business and we don’t have guard duty. Under no circumstances are we are raiding that HYDRA base until we’ve crashed out for a good ten hours. Also, aren’t you forgetting something? Three little words...

 _For Tolstoy’s sake. Are we really still doing this? The Soldier will_ not _ask for permission to debrief this time. He has just saved your life. Gratitude would be preferable to attitude_.

And I _am_ grateful, don’t get me wrong. But it’s not like you had a choice in the matter now did you ? You just saved your own metaphorical skin too. They don’t hand out medals for self preservation, you know. That’s something we’re going to have to get used to, saving each other, if this little arrangement of ours is to work out successfully.

_And what would you possibly save the Soldier from, Bucky Barnes ?_

For starters, from yourself. Did you really have to kill that guy? Couldn’t you have just left him knocked him out for security to find ? If you were worried about Claire, she wasn’t in danger since he’d never seen her face.

 Look, I get it, I do. In the heat of the moment, instinct wins out over instruction. Which is also why we need to work on setting our default from eliminate to merely injure. What I‘m basically saying is, kneecaps – yes, neck – baaad kitty. I’ll be your conscience. Just call me Jimminy instead of James and we’ll make you a real boy !

_The Soldier did not understand that reference. You drive a hard bargain Barnes. Then again, if you didn’t you wouldn’t be worth the Soldier’s time now would you ?_

Congratulations, you’ve achieved proficiency in the art of back-handed complimenting. We can now move on to our next lesson: Shutting up and going the fuck to sleep.  
But I’m serious as a heart attack here, Frosty. I get it, the war ain’t over yet, not ours at least, but that doesn’t mean we kill indiscriminately, just anybody and any one, the poor schmuck who’s in the wrong place at the wrong time, even if it’s the quickest way to silence them. Even if they’re HYDRA, but not our specific targets.

_Why._

I used to have a buddy, Jeff Mace over in basic. Gentle soul, an intellectual actually, and the last guy you’d expect to see in the army. Oh he loved his country, enough that I alternated between teasing him ‘The Patriot’ and ‘Professor’ but I was really glad when he didn’t get sent to die in the front lines overseas.

Jeff owned a first edition book by this German philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche, and he’d sleep with it under his pillow every night. I thought he was cuckoo, reading something like that when we were going to war with the same bunch. As it turned out, Jeff could read German and I learnt what little I did simply from listening to him reading his favourite passages out loud to me. I got good enough that I could stumble through a few lines by myself very very slowly, but he passed it on to me nonetheless. It was war, sure, but I’d read it whenever I could, wrapped the cover in newspaper  because no matter what you say, people judge a book by its cover and I didn’t want to be falsely accused of reading what somebody presumptuous took to be Nazi propaganda.

I’ll forget these lines the day I forget my Ma’s name.

 _~~You~~ _ _~~did~~ _ _~~forget her name. For about seventy years.~~_

~~And then I remembered it ! This is entirely beside the point. Kindly quit your yapping.~~

‘He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster.

And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee’

We might be killers, but we’re _not_ murderers. And if you think I’m going to stand by and let us become that, we’re gonna have a problem, you and I.

_You yet believe in redemption, don’t you, Bucky Barnes ?_

Honestly ~~, not too long ago~~ for a while during the war, I can’t say I did.

When you routinely and personally turn some stranger’s face into something that resembles a slab of meat more than anything, perspectives change and it gets a bit difficult to believe in that stuff.

I grew up questioning every damn thing, you know ? Do I want this ? Do I really need it? Can I _afford_ it? How, Who, When, Where, Why ? The questions never ended.

I didn’t always like it, but surviving back then meant you _had_ to question every choice you made, only pick out what you absolutely couldn’t do without, what you absolutely needed to survive. So of course I questioned everything they said in church, I questioned capital ‘G’ God. The thing is, when you’re fighting for your life and you’re in so deep that you can’t tell where the fight ends and where living starts, you search for familiar little things to anchor you, even if you’d thought it silly before. You hang on with bleeding nails to anything that keeps you sane, anything at all, even if you can’t prove its veracity.

_You are aware, that the Soldier is a communist, yes ? You need not justify your beliefs or your reasons for them to him._

This isn’t a justification, Frosty. And heck, _yeah_ sure you may be Comrade Kill-Shot, but nobody is above needing a little hope. And if I can’t believe in the possibility of something more, something after all this bloodshed, some place to rest my soul if even just for a little while, then I can’t do this. I can’t survive.

_But why merely survive, when you can finally live ? We both are free from HYDRA and between the two of us, possess the expertise need to go on the run and leave this all behind to start afresh._

Because I won’t be alive, not really, not until I can get back to Steve and set things right. We need to sit down, and have ourselves a good long chat, and it may or may not go how I’d like it to; eitherway we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. But first, we’ve got to take out the trash, clean up the mess HYDRA’s dumped on our doorstep, and so until then, survive it is.

_The Soldier just wants to add, when it comes down to it, he’s scarier than any abyss._

Ugh, _way_ to step on my moment. Yes, you’re terrifying. A terrifying, spotlight-stealing bottomless pit of irreverence.

_There’s only the Soldier up here in your head (you really don’t have the storage space for more), what possible spotlight are you refer-_

Get the fuck off my stage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're interested in Nietzsche, i haven't read his book and whatever I know is from Wikipedia, but you should definitely go read about him and how he not only praised the Jewish people, but also criticized the rising tide of German anti-antisemitism even way back in 1886. When he died, his sister took all sorts of liberties and basically re-wrote his books with everything nasty and Nazi-worshipping to represent her own views, and still published them under poor Friedrichs’ name, but I’m going off topic here. Seriously, just read the articles on his book Beyond Good and Evil, which is where the quote is from, about Nietzsche himself, and his delightful sister.  
> Hasta luego :)


	11. Chapter 11

**22:27 hrs, 19th April, 2014.**

  
Been out like a broken light for 16 hours straight. That’s some kind of a record I think, longest I’ve ever slept uninterrupted in my entire life.

_Incorrect. August 10th , 1960 to 25th November, 1976, between missions in London and Switzerland respectively The Soldier was on ice for 16 years, 3 months and 15 days._

You know Frosty, even a wee bitty Panzer with all guns blazing ain't got nothing on you when it comes to mood killers. Thanks a lot, pal.

_Don’t mention it._

Not a single stinking dream to wake me up screaming though. It must’ve been the shakes coming on that did open my eyes finally; we’re way past the three hour mark for our second dose of epinephrine. Just pushed in another 5 ml, and it’s nuts how immediate the effect is. I don’t know (and am not very excited to find out for that matter) just how dependant the Soldier was on whatever drugs HYDRA was pumping into him, but either way, HYDRA’s going to pay, and we’re collecting. We might have to raid a few other bases to get the more specialized stuff if it isn’t the kind of fun drugs that hospitals keep. My mother would be so proud.

Still, there’s plenty to look forward to. I’ve woken up to a stack of intel waiting for me to make sense of and a possibly active HYDRA base within a 30 mile radius to infiltrate, and it’s a good feeling. It’s familiar, that pre-raid sense of anticipation, even if we’re still just at the planning stages. There’s no way we’re going in without casing our joint for approximate number of agents in the anthill, entry points, exit points. I don’t want a repeat of the hospital, especially if something I see in there triggers a breakdown that sends me curling up in the corner of my head again. Hence stake-out it is.

_The Soldier will be able to run a trace from the HYDRA agent’s cell phone and detect the exact location of the base._

What’s that doohickey ? Some kind of modern civilian radio, right ?

_Remind the Soldier to give you a complete run-down of modern technology and its evolution over the last seven decades. Preferably before you drive him to drinking. The Soldier considers it highly unfair that you will not be subjected to dial-up internet speeds, or that dial tone either._

Hang on a sec. Shouldn’t that work both ways ? As in, if we turn it on, they’ll be able to track us back to here now that he’s been missing for a while. And what if it’s been live this whole time ?

_Firstly, that is not how cellphones operate. They are not primarily tracking devices, although they can be used as such. Secondly, All HYDRA issued devices do have their own tracking chips, but those have to be manually activated. The Soldier would not make a mistake as amateur as that to bring a live tracker back to our base of operations. Although not central to our mission, the staff of the Fetish Fortress are more amusing alive rather than dead._

Ok firstly, the capacity to provide you with amusement is no reason to decide if somebody’s life is worth saving. It was only a matter of time before we needed to leave anyway, so we might as well do it now before you activate that tracker and risk drawing them here.

_The Soldier knows how to override that protocol on their devices, the staff face no risk whatsoever-_

Still. The only reason we’ve stayed put for so long in a civilian establishment is because we had no dough on us, and they not only gave us a job, but a rent-free roof over our head as well. We’ve taken enough from them already. We’ve got enough cash from that HYDRA guy’s wallet to keep us going for a while. (No really, just how much money do folk make the days ? Further research required) That was easily a year’s worth of my wages in there.  
I don’t have it in me to tell them goodbye to their faces.

_We've already wiped down the room for prints so we might as well leave tonight then. Speaking of which, we need to confirm transport for all subsequent field work. Give this due consideration, because the Soldier refuses to take one more step on foot when the same distance could be travelled on wheels instead._

But what if you wanted to go wee, hmm ?Gonna pull up by the john on a four wheeler or a purring two wheeler ? Maybe a nice little Penny Farthing bike. Oh, or a perambulator. You'd look adorable with a little bonnet and bib, peeking outta your swaddling. A dear, sweet, homicidal widdle baby.

_We have the same face._

Wrong. I have my rugged good looks and rakish smile. You just look murderous most of the time.

 _Being forced to share brain space with a chronologically displaced amnesiac nonagerian will do that to one._  

Fair enough. We’re definitely going to have to work out transport other than walking from place to place, even if it means stealing. It’s a drain on our strength and being anything other than a hundred percent is potentially deadly. We don't have a time frame to work with right now, but it'll come along soon enough and getting to where we need to go to within a second will be imperative. Not to mention, it's damned inconvenient since it can only be done at night when there are fewer people out and I’m less likely to be identified, even if my hair is short now and the arm is covered. This completely rules out public transport of any kind, although I can’t say I’d shed a tear about the loss of the train as one of our options.

Which leaves us with cars and motorcycles.

And by personal preference, I’m leaning towards a bike. I can drive a car, in the loosest sense of the word. ~~Learnt about a year back~~ I learnt after Azzano and was just a shade better than Dum Dum, who's driving made you wish for the Coney Island Cyclone on a full stomach. If push comes to shove, I could use a car but if the mechanisms have changed a little too much since the war, the Soldier will have to drive. Now a motorbike on the other hand, that's more up my alley. Having worked on them in the repair shop before the war, I know my way around them fairly well. At least, I did in 1941. Hopefully though, they haven’t changed all that much since. They’re fast, they can weave in between traffic if it comes down to a chase, plus with a helmet on there’s no chance of anybody identifying me even in broad daylight.

_And they look way cooler. That should’ve your first point._

Indeed. Where are my priorities. Writing of which, I just remembered Steve’s first tryst with a motorbike. Better jot it down before it slips away.

If I remember correctly (hah), Howard all but dragged Steve away after the stunt he'd pulled in Azzano and told him that if he was going to continue doing stuff as crazy as that, he'd need an even crazier ride. Pity he hadn't straightened out the physics for that flying car yet. Would'a come real handy then. So I told him so.

Howard, flamboyant, flippant guy that he ~~is~~ was says to me, "It's not about straightening out the physics so much as convincing it to come work for me, you know? We're practically married anyway."

I couldn't help snorting, the guy was so sure of himself. "Practically married, huh ? Looks like she went off on that honeymoon all by herself and left you footing the bill, champ."

Stark had blinked, as if really noticing me for the first time. "Sarcasm is a metric for potential. Who are you again ?"

"The guy you'll be answering to if Steve and his custom ride get caught up in the divorce proceedings between you and your lady physics."("It's Sergeant James Barnes. Sniper." Steve had cleared his throat and added helpfully.)

He'd sized me up then, just another infantryman haggard and rough from capture and subsequent days on the march back to camp. Nobody really special. And then he'd made no discrimination between Steve, clearly a hero, and somebody who looked like something the cat had dragged in.

"Come in tomorrow for measurements, I'll need them to make you a new rifle."  
That was Howard Stark for you. I'll need to look him up, see who finally let him put a ring on her, see how he lived out his life. Maybe physics didn't agree to being his wife, but she sure blessed his kid. Anthony Stark, Iron Man, and Steve's fellow Avenger. I wonder if the son gets along as well with Steve as the father did.

Howard had a saying. Well he had a lot of 'em, but he used the sarcasm one on me the most. And look at us. The Fist of Hydra, shaping the world one shot at a time since the last fifty years or so. Honestly, I wish his predictions for those flying cars of the future had been true instead. That would'a been cool. But I'm going off on tangents here again.  
  
The bike itself was a thing of beauty. It had been wheeled to a small clearing in the woods behind base camp, so that Steve could try it out, suggest improvements if needed.

Pity he hadn't the foggiest idea how to ride one of those things. Still, he strode right up to her and swung a leg across, all proud like.

"Looking good, Rogers. You should straddle things more often." I'd leered at him.  
He'd raised an eyebrow at me.  
"Well it ain't no bicycle built for two, but I think you'd look swell in a little side car, Daisy. I think I'll have a word with Howard about that."

I wasn't having any of that. Not from a guy who agreed to a custom built vehicle that he'd had no prior experience with whatsoever.

"Steven, Steven, here is my answer true,  
Riding that death-trap will turn my balls blue,  
You'll be left 'spanin to my missus,  
Why I can only leave her kisses,  
Cause I'll be switched if I get hitched  
Lacking the hardware to give kids or two."  
I sang back to him. The little- well, not quite so little anymore - punk just applauded real slow.

"You missed your calling, Buck. Would'a bought the house down in the USO."

"Yeah sure, me in heels and a dress would've certainly been a sight for sore eyes." He'd grinned at me real wide then.

"Speaking from experience, yes, you would've been. Remember that time when we were kids and we played dress-up with my Ma's Sunday best ? "

"Oh God, I'd hoped you'd forgotten all about that."

"Yeah not likely, since you looked so pretty that instead of getting mad at us, Ma gave you her lipstick to try out as well."

"Okay, let's please never speak about my cross-dressing days again, yeah." I'd pleaded with him. Stevie, kind soul that he was, had laughed and relented.

"Who's gonna teach you to ride that thing ?"  
  
"You are. What, you think I kept you around just for your pretty face Buck ?"

"And just how long had you been practicing that one for huh ?"

He'd grinned. "Long enough. C'mon, show me how it's done."

Stevie had always been a quick learner, but post the muscle juice, he'd only need to listen to a set of instructions once before being able to follow them perfectly to the letter. So it had struck me as a bit odd when he pulled the big pleading eyes for me to get on the seat behind him and play pillion for when he took his first circuit around the clearing.

"You do know it's tougher to balance with somebody else's weight as well right ? Still sure about this ? You've got it down pat Steve, honest. Just like riding Billy Wickers bike."

"The one you'd pick the lock on and steal."

"Borrow."

" _I_ was the one who always got chosen to go keep it back !"

"That's cause Billy and his ma were both a little bit in love with you Steve. Anyway, this one's a lot fancier than any set of wheels Billy could dream up, and it's all yours. Start her up, nice and easy, just like I showed you."

His first few laps were perfect, hardly a bump. And then the entirely of his Steveishness kicked in full force. He revved the engine and headed straight for the trees.  
In the dark.  
With no headlights installed (because Howard Stark was just as crazy in his own way. And because a lamp on the front would give away our position during night missions. But I preferred my Howard Stark Is Nuts theory more).

I don't remember all the names I called Steve, but they were pretty darn creative (The fact that I knew and adored Sarah Rogers means that I couldn't call Steve a whole variety of flattering names, as much as I wanted to).

He had me hanging onto him for dear life the entire two minutes he wove and swerved through the woods, and crazier than a March hare the lunatic enjoyed every moment of it because he looked merrier than a jay bird the whole time. He jerked to a halt, throwing the bike onto its front wheel in a half spin, followed by me face first onto the back of his neck. Not one of my most dignified moments. Funny how they always seemed to happen around Steve. 

I was playing at being a diva, too peeved to get off him, leaning with practically all my weight on Steve in a way I'd never have done back when he was frail, when he said it so quietly I would've missed it if not for my post Azzano hearing. And looking back on that conversation now, I think he'd have denied ever asking had I not heard the first time.

"So, marriage huh ?"

"What ?"

Steve cleared his throat. "You mentioned a missus and kids, at some point. You planning to settle down when we make it outta this mess ?"

"If we make it out of this mess."

He'd shaken his head. Insistent.  
"When. We'll make it through together, you and me, or not at all. I'll follow wherever you go."

"Don't talk that way Steve. And anyway, if I remember correctly it was me that agreed to do the following into the jaws of death part. And there ain't gonna be no following anybody unless it's on a ship home and not in a pine box at that. Plus, you great ass, what makes you think if we were to croak, it would be me first ? You're not indestructible you know, freaky muscles or not.

"Aww Buck, you flatter me."

"Don't I just ? Eitherway, it wouldn't do to deprive the feminine world of a face like mine or that lovely Agent Carter of whatever the heck it is that she sees in you. Well apart from your big pile of stupid. Maybe she thinks its you being brave," I ribbed him.

He'd smiled sort of wistfully at the mention of Margaret Carter. And then did _not_ proceed to snark back at me, as our personal code of recreational ribbing dictated.

See now, with his normal levels of sarcasm he could've come up with any answer to that. Instead, Steve mumbled (he _never_ mumbled, always said everything loud and clear. Sometimes too darn clear),"The feminine world."

Again he had me caught on the back foot. I told him that.

"You said it would be a pity to deprive the feminine world of you. Not 'the world' at large." I could hear the finger quotes in his voice.

"So what are you getting at ?"

"Nothing, nothing. Just rambling, tired out and fuzzy."

He'd looked so careful, so guarded. The antithesis of tired and fuzzy. Steve was watching for my reaction so closely, that I didn't want to give him one at all for fear of it being the wrong one, whichever it was that had him so quietly agitated. The whole world was a big place- lots'a people, men, women, children. Himself and Me. Dogs. Dogs are wonderful, I'd always wanted a dog as a kid. Maybe he was hinting at something big. But the Steve I knew back then was a straightforward kinda guy. If he wanted to say something, he would not mince a single word, no matter to whom it was. He'd merrily disobeyed Phillips. Not to say that he lacked subtlety, but if there was the slightest chance of confusion, Steve would have said things exactly as they were. Yet, I couldn't shake the niggling doubt that he was saying a lot more by virtue of not stating it explicitly. Still, if whatever he was implying wasn't forthcoming, I wasn't going to force it out of him.

_As touching as that anecdote was, you haven't quite come up with a solution to our vehicle problem Barnes. Any ideas on where we might acquire a bike from ?_

Nope. Although I think you do, don't you Mr. Always Have a Plan ?

_For once, you are correct in your assumptions about the Soldier, although the Soldier does not go by the title of 'Mister.' In the future, Comrade may suffice._

Ok, Comrade Kill-Shot. Spill.

 _In 1971, the Soldier was in New York for a mission. At the time, one of the rising gangs were the greaser group, the Dogs of Hell, in Hell's Kitchen._  
_The Soldier has no reason to believe that the gang has disbanded since, and hence we might steal a vehicle from them as opposed to stealing from a civilian not involved in borderline criminal activity._

 _We're_ involved in borderline criminal activity.

_What's your point?_

Turns out, I have none. Sounds good. So we're moving into Hell's Kitchen now are we ? Fitting name for what we're about to become.  
  
_How so ?_

Well the saying goes, a story's only as good as it's villian. I think it's time we play the big bad wolf and go knocking on HYDRA'S front door this time around, don't you think ?

_The only knocking we'll be doing are heads together.And the Soldier would rather be Koschei, if it's all the same to you. A lot more style._

Who ?

_Koschei the Deathless ? Famous archetypal antagonist in the folklore of the Motherland. He is extremely difficult to kill. Like us two._

One of these days, I'll actually learn to stop being surprised when you make references to the Soviet Union. How does a non-indigenous assassin of the USSR learn it's folklore ?

_The Soldier read the story of Koschei in a book he found in the room of a child of one if his targets._

_Barnes?_

 

_Apparently, that last statement was disturbing enough to Barnes that he has withdrawn once again. The Soldier can't be sure when he will resurface. In the meantime though, the Soldier will move out of the Fetish Fortress and find another empty residence, preferably in Hell's Kitchen, to set up base in. It shouldn't be very difficult to locate since the Kitchen took the brunt of the Chitauri attack in 2012 and is still under reconstruction. Then there is the matter of stealing a motorcycle. He will also reverse-track the location of the HYDRA base and buy supplies required to make IEDs and other possible assault weapons we will need when taking the HYDRA base. Ofcourse, if all goes according to the Soldier's plan, we won't need any weapons. Our entry shall be like a needle through flesh, clean and sharp._

_But first, the Soldier must do further research on these cat videos. They make for a surprisingly good way to pass the time before he can leave the building_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys! Hey guys! I'm still alive ! *waves tiny little flag pathetically*  
> I don't want to make excuses for the crazy long gap between updates, but it's actually legit. I got into Medical school ! And my workload has increased manifold, plus I took some time off Bucky's Guide to work on other projects (which anyway turned out to be Stucky related).  
> In case you were wondering, no, this fic is not shelved at all, but I'll be much slower working on it and updating. I'm toying with the idea of posting about 2 chapters per update in the future, which will mean longer gaps between updates but a tad more continuity as well. I'd go nuts if I didn't put up something new now though, so this was posted in the meanwhile.  
> Eitherway, thank you all so much for being a wonderfully patient bunch :)  
> Hugs,  
> Jo.

**Author's Note:**

> Say hello on Tumblr :)  
> www.jonairadreaming.tumblr.com


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